


Love Lost and Found

by NoShabbyTigers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Depression, Drug Use, F/M, Marriage, Murder, Overdosing, Romance, Second Chances, Violence, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:42:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6193807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoShabbyTigers/pseuds/NoShabbyTigers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance meeting on a bus, a new life, a new husband and hope for the future. Molly Hooper had it all until she held nothing in her heart but grief. Could she come back from the edge and find meaning in life again? An unexpected hand held out in the darkness offers her a spark of hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one starts out rather grim. For those of you impacted by the sudden death of a loved one, depression or a suicide attempt, please be warned that these first few chapters could be pretty rough on you. Proceed cautiously and guard yourself. There will be darkness but it will be leavened by hope and in the end, love.
> 
> For friends who have gone before. I wish I could have held out my hand to you in the dark and stayed your desperate heart. I miss you and I love you.
> 
> Thanks always to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The things we put your poor characters through...

Love Lost and Found

“Though lovers be lost, love shall not; And death shall have no dominion.”

Dylan Thomas

Chapter 1

Molly had thought she knew pain but the pain she was feeling now eclipsed all else - her father’s death, the loss of Sherlock to his faux demise and her dear childhood friend’s long and ultimately hopeless fight with cancer. This pain was a ravening wolf with long teeth, tearing at her, shaking her and ripping her to pieces. There would be no oblivion, no final spiral into darkness, to ease this pain for her and the wolf would return again and again until her mind broke or she found a way to go on. Time? She would feel better with time? What was time when her chosen one, her husband of less than a year, was dead?

When she first learned his name she had started laughing. How could someone so extraordinary have the pedestrian name of John Smith? It was a joke, a cliché and she could not help herself as she dissolved into helpless laughter. He had at first looked a bit hurt and then, suddenly and if he knew exactly what she was thinking, he too started to laugh. She was lost after that and they had married less than four months later.

She had never felt such an all-consuming and passionate love before. She had been infatuated with Sherlock but even her desperate yearning over the absent detective had been nothing compared to the fire generated by just a glance from her John. She fell and fell hard and it was perfect. It was perfect until it was gone.

She stood at his graveside, a young woman, pale and drawn, now a young widow. She was surrounded by friends but she was alone. She heard the consoling words felt the consoling touches and went through the motions but she felt nothing. How could she feel anything when his gravestone, highly polished dragon’s blood marble, glinted coldly in the sun mocking her with his favorite color; hot as their shared passion and now cold as death. John, she cried out in her mind, John. His memory was so strong in her – the quicksilver flash of his smile, the elegant lines of his slender frame, and the soft darkness of his expressive eyes. How can I live without you? Tears started to fall as she left the cemetery. She had nothing left now but her memories.

******

It had been a long and dreary winter for Molly after the fall. She had gotten through the worst of it at work and Mycroft had made sure that though she had been written up for “irregular behavior” she hadn’t lost her job.  Her colleagues had treated her delicately for a few months and then all had returned to normal, for them at least.  Molly had suffered missing Sherlock and lying to all of their friends but had made it through the worse of the guilt and sadness and was slowly starting to work back towards life. Mycroft had contacted her once to let her know that their “mutual friend” was still among the living but that had been months ago and she had not seen him since. She knew he was watching though and even if she found Sherlock’s older brother a bit disconcerting, she was secretly glad to be under surveillance and feel somewhat safe.

She successfully avoided all of the old gang except for Greg. He had been busted down a few ranks but still came into the morgue checking on the less sensational cases he was assigned. He was alternately sad and furious at Sherlock’s death but had the good grace not to take it out on her.

It was on one such dreary afternoon, sleet sliding slowly down the windows in her office that Greg Lestrade had shown up at the morgue with a small entourage of staff to get her findings and take a closer look at the body of a young murder victim. The young man had been garroted so violently that his head was mostly severed from his body. He had been a horror show of blood and bulging eyes when he was brought in but after photos, several rounds of forensic examinations and exhaustive analysis, Molly had cleaned him up and though his wounds were still horrific, he could be released to the mortuary for cremation.

The young man had the visage of a battered angel that contrasted starkly with the track marks on his arms. She would not soon forget the look on his mother’s face and the sound of her choking cries as she positively identified her only son. The case was still open but a drug deal gone sideways was suspected. Greg was obviously frustrated as she reviewed the body and the files one last time. Not much had come of the meeting and Molly too was frustrated as she transferred the body of the young man to the mortuary staff later that afternoon. Not all cases could be solved in spite of modern forensics and all of their high tech toys. A mother’s son was dead and the killer still abroad and free.

Nothing fair or just in that, she thought bitterly as she put on her coat in the locker room after her shift ended. Once again as she had many times over the past months, wished Sherlock was back.  Her mood was bleak as she left the hospital, popped her yellow umbrella open against the sleet and walked towards the bus stop. Home was calling to her and she was looking forward to a nice quiet evening at her little flat, a glass of wine and a good sleep.  Little did she know, standing alone in the bus shelter looking out into a cold winter night, how her life was about to change.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The bus arrived and the doors gave their characteristic swish as they opened. It was warm and bright inside and there weren’t too many people traveling this time of night. She closed her umbrella and leaned it on the seat next to her to dry. It extended slightly into the aisle but its bright canary yellow should be enough to warn people off. Taking a book out of her purse, she settled in for the long bus trip home.  The tube was often faster but the bus was less crowded and she enjoyed looking out the window people watching.  Nothing to see tonight so she might as well read to pass the time to her stop.

She was reading a book called “Plain Song” by an American author by the name of Ken Haruff. It took place in rural America and though she was a city girl, born and bred, she heard the call of the wide open spaces of America in between the words. It was a book about freedom and choice and unlikely love and she adored it from the moment she started reading it. It made her deeply sad and made her smile at the same time. Take me there, she thought, take me home to where two aging men gave their heart to a young girl in need and they were all saved. She sighed and opened the book.

She heard the bus door open two stops later but it barely registered on her consciousness as she read.  She knew the length of trip and she wouldn’t put her book down for another three stops. She was aware of the young man as he passed but didn’t spare him a glance except to register he had dark brown hair and wore an olive green trench. She had ample opportunity to study him in the next moments as his foot got between her umbrella and the seat and he fell literally into her lap, knocking the book from her hands and knocking the breath from her body.

“Beg pardon, Miss” The young man said as he struggled to extricate himself from her lap. After a brief moment consisting mostly of loose elbows and scrabbling knees, he was on his feet and bending down to retrieve her book.  He handed it to her and as he did she looked fully into his face for the first time.

He smiled at her awkwardly and her breath caught in her throat. Oh, he was beautiful. He had a slender, almost fey face and huge brown eyes. She gawked at him but said nothing. “Right rude of me to trip over you. So sorry.” He smiled more broadly at her and looked more closely at the book before handing it over.  A crooked goofy grin broke on his face, his eyes lighting up like the sun. “Grand book this, are you liking it?”

Molly was flustered and felt the color rising in her face. “S’all right, no harm done. It is a great book. I love it.” The young man was staring expectantly at her like he was waiting for her to say something else. “Uhhh, would you like to sit down? My name’s Molly, Molly Hooper.”

He gave her another loopy grin. “I thought you would never ask. I’m John Smith.” He flopped onto the seat beside her looking very much like an overgrown puppy.

Molly looked him to see if he was having her on and then started to laugh. “John Smith? Are you kidding? John Smith. Oh that’s just too perfect!” He looked disconcerted at first but within seconds he too was laughing and quirking his expressive dark eyes at her. “Quite the reaction that. Not much, but it is my name. Not as common as you might think though. I think people have an aversion…” 

Molly went off again into a gale of merry laughter and it took her a minute to gain control again. “Nice to meet you, Mr. John Smith.” She extended her hand; he took it and held it for a long moment meeting her eyes, his smile softening. “And very nice to meet you, Miss Molly Hooper. It is miss isn’t it?”

Molly nodded and they spent the rest of the bus ride happily chatting about “Plain Song” and the other Haruff books that he had read but she had not.  She rose as the bus approached her neighborhood. “My stop is coming up. Nice to meet you, Mr. John Smith.” Molly rose and the young man pressed a business card into her hand.

He looked awkward and strangely bashful. “I don’t ever do this but I hope you might call me? I find I quite like you and want to find out what else you like to read. What do you say, Miss Molly? Take pity on a clumsy old chap like me and ring me up?” He looked so hopeful and so young and so untouched by darkness that her heart melted and she nodded.

“Excellent! Don’t wait too long. Good night, Miss Molly.” He rose as she left the bus and waved to her as it pulled away from the curb and vanished into the night. She walked the few blocks to her flat a spring in her step and a feeling of hope surging in her breast. Now wasn’t that unexpected and nice she thought as she climbed her stairs and let herself into her flat. Her cat, Toby, wound around her feet anxious for his evening treat. Molly fed him, fed herself and sat down with some wine to look at the young man’s business card.

_John T. Smith_

_Fine Books and Watercolours_

There was an address not far from Bart’s and a mobile number on the bottom of the card.  Curiosity getting the better of her, she opened her laptop and did a search. His shop popped up right away as did several articles on the comparative rarity of independent book sellers. His shop carried all the latest books but specialized in older first editions and rare books.  He also carried watercolours painted by local and regional UK artists. There was a photo of him on his site and the goofy, slightly lopsided grin and luminous eyes were just the same. She took her time to study him. Beautiful indeed and somewhat posh too. What on earth had been doing on a London bus? Oh my, a bit out of her league but that wasn’t going to stop her from calling him. 

Molly smiled a genuine smile and felt her spirits lift as she closed her laptop and go ready for bed. She chuckled under her breath as she recalled a conversation she had with Sherlock several years ago.  He had gone undercover in some small village in the north where cell coverage and internet connectivity were spotty and had registered at the local Inn. He had asked her to monitor his website for inquiries as John Watson was out of town as well and had no internet service either.  She was to phone him if anything interesting came up. John’s selfish use of vacation time while Sherlock needed him had quite put him out and so Sherlock had grudgingly asked Molly to help. She had asked him what name he planned on registering under and he replied in his most condescending of Sherlock tones, “John Smith, of course.  No one ever uses or expects John Smith. Too obvious by half.” They had a rare laugh together over that name, yes they had.

Molly sighed as she prepared for bed. It had been a hard winter season without Sherlock to aggravate her and cheer her days. She could use a new friend after a long, cold winter and she thought one Mr. John Smith was just the ticket. She idly wondered if he had a nice posterior under that trench coat.  Time enough to find out.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

And find out she did. She called him days after meeting him on the bus and they were dating within two weeks and engaged within two months. He was a maelstrom of energy and movement and life and his joie de vivre was incandescent. He woke her dormant spirit, satisfied her hidden but extremely passionate nature and she was in love like she had never been before in her life.  Molly, alone and sad for so long, bloomed under his attentions and once more became the happy and optimistic woman she had been before the fall. And, as expected, his posterior was very nice whether encased in the slim jeans he favored after work or his more sedate and traditional work trousers. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen and she never tired of looking at his mercurial face, the fine balance of his head on his neck, his lovely hands and graceful lines of his slim body.  It was if he had been created especially for her. Every part matched and every response was mirrored and amplified when they came together. They were mad for each other and life was good.

As spring approached and their wedding date set, she had given up her old flat and moved into his townhouse. It was small for a townhouse but it was located in nice neighborhood and was filled with books and art. He courted her with the swagger of a dandy and his antics never failed to make her laugh. He was dead serious in the bedroom though and she had never had a lover like him. He made love like he appreciated fine art and good food and they took hours getting to know one another and exploring their secret desires. She had never met anyone as open about sex as John and he would try anything, do anything to bring her pleasure. She had always thought herself shy in bed but now she knew it had just been her previous partners. Her blood thrummed in concert with his and their love felt like fate to Molly. Everything had finally come together for her and though she still worried about Sherlock and the Moriarty network, she pushed her concerns aside as her wedding day approached.

She had invited all of her old friends and had even sent an invitation to Mycroft Holmes. She wished Sherlock could come to the wedding but decided an invitation to his cool and unapproachable brother would be a gesture of good will on her part. John Watson was coming with a plus one as was Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade.  Her John had been mildly interested in her friendship with Sherlock but much more interested in Mycroft.  His disinterest remained strong even when she told him, somewhat haltingly, that there were things about Sherlock she could not discuss. John shrugged and returned the conversation back to Sherlock’s older brother. It turned out that Mycroft had purchased several rare and expensive first editions from John’s shop.

John grinned at her when she asked him about inviting Mycroft. “Cool customer but he knows his books. Always been polite to me. Go ahead and invite the old stick, he may enjoy seeing love incarnate wed.” He grinned, kissed her on the top of her head and went off to uncrate a new shipment of paintings that had just arrived from Scotland. She shook her head; only in London could six degrees of separation be so true. Love incarnate?  She did not think Mycroft would be amused. Oh well, he probably wouldn’t come anyway she thought as she placed a stamp on his invitation.

She had asked John why all of his art shipments delivered to the house as opposed to the shop. He had grinned broadly at her, a smudge of dust on the tip of his nose, and said he loved changing up the art in the townhouse and unpacking the works at home had become a habit and provided him with an opportunity to evaluate the shipments in leisure. He would separate his favorite pieces from the shipment, decide where they should hang and then either store the art destined to come down in the basement vault or have it taken it to the shop to sell. His partner in the shop, Rufus, would come by to pick up the crates after John had had his way with them. Molly was grateful as the last thing she needed were the large, awkward wooden things cluttering their already narrow front foyer.

Their wedding day had been a perfect day in late June with a glorious blue sky graced with puffy clouds. They married in a small outdoor courtyard of a tiny chapel just north of London. Less than fifty people were in attendance and they were mostly friends and cousins as both Molly and John had lost their parents young. Standing in the receiving line after the ceremony Molly was shocked when Mycroft Holmes came through and shook John’s hand and bestowed a cool kiss on her cheek. Mycroft’s eyes were sad and she could tell he missed Sherlock. Spontaneously she took his hand and returned his kiss, their eyes meeting briefly over their shared secret. Poor Mycroft, he must feel so alone she thought as she greeted the next guest. John noticed their exchange and looked strangely at her. She smiled and kissed him and by the time they had greeted all their guests and proceeded to the reception, Mycroft Holmes and his small show of tenderness towards Molly was forgotten.

******

They honeymooned in Italy and returned to London just as fall was coming on.  They had stopped using all birth control in the hope that they would have a child in the next few years. Molly returned to work at Bart’s and John to his shop and the days spun out. Molly was so happy and even the often trying and heartbreaking cases at the morgue became more manageable for her because of John. She would come home after a long shift and find him puttering in their kitchen, experimenting with a new pasta dish to please her. He would hand her a glass of wine or a chilled mixed drink and take her in his arms gently comforting her or back her up against the refrigerator and snog her silly. Dinner was often abandoned and delayed for some hours but John always managed to save it somehow.

They drank white Lillet on their rooftop deck and made love under the stars. They grilled massive amounts of Jamaican jerk chicken and invited all their neighbors to the feast. They went to the flower market and to Harrod’s food court and walked along the Thames as if London were their private kingdom. Four months on from the wedding they found out they were expecting and John presented Molly with a first edition of “Great Expectations”. Molly laughed and then she cried, cradling the precious volume against her newly fecund belly. It was paradise and when it ended, Molly wanted to end it too.

******

Molly looked up from the paperwork she was reviewing after hearing a soft knock on her office door. Mycroft Holmes stood on the other side of her office door looking at her through the wire mesh diamonds in the glass.  His face was a mask of grief and Molly was instantly on her feet. Sherlock, oh my god, Sherlock. She looked at Mycroft with wide eyes willing him not to open her door. He was the angel of death and she wanted none of it.

At first she didn’t understand what he was saying to her. A lorry?  A lorry on the way home?  How had a lorry taken Sherlock, too clever and responsive to external threats by half?  John?  No, it couldn’t be John. He had just texted her and said he would be home in thirty minutes. He was going to make her spaghetti carbonara, one of her favorites. They were going to eat dinner and watch Venus through the rooftop telescope. 

Mycroft took her in his arms.  That act, human as it was, drove reality home. John was dead. He had been run down by a lorry driver, fresh from the pub and careless.  The random had taken him from her. Fate, which had been her friend for the past year, had turned on her with vicious fangs.

John, oh god, John. He could not be dead. They were going to be parents. They were going to be together until their last breaths. Their forever was strong and true and this monster was telling her otherwise.

She heard choking, guttural cries and realized that it was her. Her, who had been just moments before, whole and happy. She felt the fine wool of Mycroft Holmes’ suit jacket under her cheek, smelled the subtle spice of his sandalwood aftershave and wanted to kill him.  If she would have had a scalpel in her hands she would have slit his throat as opposed to knowing the truth.  Her John was gone. She would never see him again, never kiss him again and never bask in his love for her as they planned for their forever together. 

She thrashed in Mycroft’s arms, striking out at him in her pain. He took her blows but his gaze was implacable and his hold on her complete. His eyes told her a story she did not want to hear and it said your husband is dead, your life as you knew it is dead. You took a chance, loved fiercely and completely and all your small but beautiful dreams had just been suddenly and irrevocably taken from you.  It was a regular Tuesday afternoon that had brought a living nightmare. His eyes told her that all lives ended, all hearts were broken and for the first time in her young life, she understood exactly what he believed. How stark and unrelenting his life must be. She had her John and he had no one. No one. Oh Christ, no one. John was dead and her life was over.

She stopped fighting and became stiff in Mycroft’s arms before her eyes rolled up into her head and she slumped bonelessly against him. He caught her and held her close, his heart beating helplessly in tandem with hers. He looked into her slack face and willed her to stay away until he could get her somewhere safe and quiet. In another beat he swept her up in his arms and with a stern look at his PA waiting silently in the hall, he swept Mrs. Molly Smith nee Hooper down the hall, out of St. Bart’s and into his long black car. The sun was going down and it was the end of another day, the end of another life and the end of all that was good for her. Mycroft felt an uncharacteristic twinge of compassion as he looked down at her ashen face. He would do what he could but knew already that it would not be enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Mycroft Holmes had watched Miss Hooper closely since the fall. She had fearlessly killed his little brother, sheltered him until he physically recovered from his dramatic leap from St. Bart’s roof and then let him go. She received a reprimand at work but he did his best to minimize the damage and she went on. She had thrown herself into work as if to make up for this one small blemish on her professional career and effectively vanished from her former orbit around Sherlock Holmes.

Molly interested Mycroft though if anyone had asked him why, he would have been hard pressed to come up with a quick answer. She had, for a brief and stressful moment, become a hero and it puzzled Mycroft, as it had many times in the past, how an ordinary person in extraordinary circumstances could rise up and change the world. Little, mousy Molly Hooper had done what none of the rest of Sherlock’s other friends could have done and pulled off a simple but believable hoax that had fooled everyone. Afterwards, she turned away from the drama and simply disappeared back into her mundane little life, mourning his little brother convincingly and keeping the heavy secret locked up tight in her breast. He had been sure she would break under the stress but although she had lost sleep and weight, she remained silent.

He had at first been alarmed when the detail watching Molly had reported the presence of a regular young man in her life. Secrecy was paramount where Sherlock was concerned and this unexpected development was not a welcome one. However, after looking into the matter, he was relieved to discover that he knew the young man in question as he had purchased several books at his unique but well managed rare book shop. The interior of the place had been a bit modern and quirky for Mycroft’s tastes but Mr. John Smith knew his books, knew his art and had obviously hit a chord with the collecting community as his business was quite successful. Mycroft had made several highly satisfying purchases from the shop and had been impressed with its proprietor.

Molly Hooper had once again surprised Mycroft; as though her relationship with John had grown quite intense in a very short time, there had been no indication that she had told her lover anything but the fabricated story surrounding Sherlock’s death. They had briefly visited Sherlock’s grave together but John had only shown a passing interest in the dead detective and they had never returned. They seemed absorbed in each other and in their work, life spun on and though Mycroft kept a wary eye on the young couple, nothing seemed amiss.

He flipped open the file and John Smith’s friendly face gazed up at him. He was from the north and grew up in a working class family. He had excelled in school and his parents had supported his academic excellence. He was an only child and both parents were now dead, killed in a car accident when John was in his early twenties. Determined to succeed, he had used his modest inheritance to start his book business and succeed he had. Now in his late thirties, he and his business partner had purchased the building he had been leasing and had built a small but comfortable fortune selling books and art. He owned a townhouse in one of London’s artier neighborhoods and regularly attended charity and cultural events around town. He was sought after by women and men alike but had dated only a few women, all of whom had been professional, intelligent and well read. Still single at thirty-nine, John Smith was considered to be quite a catch and had made several of London’s most eligible bachelor lists.

He flipped through several of the photographs of John and Molly together, Molly blushing furiously as John kissed her hand for the benefit of a society page photographer during a benefit for homeless children and the couple shopping in an open market, holding hands and focused on buying fresh vegetables. Mycroft smiled slightly as he looked at the photos.  Miss Hooper had gained back some weight, her color was good and he had never seen the small pathologist looking so radiant. She glowed as she looked up at her handsome young man and John seemed mutually smitten with Molly, keeping a protective arm around her as they moved through the crowded market. He felt a faint twinge of sadness as he looked at their happy faces. Not for him this giddy and overwrought state that was love. He had tried a few times with several suitable women and though the sex was adequate, no spark had ever flamed and he had always ended up alone.

Mycroft closed the file, stretched and leaned back in his office chair. No worries here for Miss Molly Hooper or for Sherlock. He would monitor the relationship but was almost certain that it would not last. Molly was a professional and well-read but was painfully awkward and surpassingly ordinary with a horrible dating track record.  John was a handsome, successful businessman with an easy charm who could have almost any woman in London.  No, it couldn’t last but he hoped that Molly enjoyed it while it did.

Mycroft rose from his desk and put the file on John Smith away. Little did Mycroft know that in less than three months’ time he would be taking Molly Hooper by the hand and kissing her cheek on her wedding day, wondering at his lack of insight in matters of the heart.  Nor would he have ever anticipated taking her hand again just months after the premature death of her beloved husband, this time to save her life.  

******

It was three months after the funeral and Molly had returned to work. Fate had dealt her yet another blow and she lost the child she had been carrying well before the end of her first trimester. She had told no one about the child and so it was her loss alone to bear. Fate, it seemed, had not been quite through with her yet and she spent a week afterwards holed up in the now quiet townhouse mourning for their unborn child.

She felt hollowed out and her life had become a repetitive pattern of work and home, work and home. She took on extra shifts and never, ever took the bus. She had slowly donated John’s clothes and shoes, box by box, until there was nothing but her clothing in the closet. She still loved the townhouse with all of its books and art but she avoided the roof deck and though polite to the neighbors who checked on her occasionally, she politely declined dinner invitations and efforts to draw her out. The only reminder of him left in their bedroom was the first edition of Great Expectations on the bedside table. She could not bear to pack it away even though she sometimes wept just looking at it.

She ate sporadically and dropped almost a stone. Her skin looked grey and her clothes now hung on her tiny frame. She rationally knew she had to turn things around but emotionally she was helpless to do so. She knew that John would not want her to carry on like this. He would want her to rejoin the human race and find joy again but without him she did not want to go on. Even news from Mycroft that Sherlock had once again contacted him was only vaguely interesting to her. He had looked at her piercingly but she would not give him the satisfaction of a response. She had thanked him coolly and returned to her work not even bothering to say goodbye.

One night in the fall, cold sleet hissing against her window, the sight of a London bus on her way home left her weeping and shaken. She had not eaten for almost two days and felt light headed and ill. A neighbor was taking care of Toby as she knew what she was going to do.  She had thought of little else in weeks.  She had lied to the neighbor saying she was being called out of town. She was a kind sort and Molly was sure that she would give Toby a good home afterwards.

She knew she was sick; mentally sick and physically sick but it made no difference.  She sat down at her desk in the downstairs library and next to the smiling photo of her and John in Italy, she wrote her last letter. She wept several times before it was finished but finish it she did. She carefully folded it, slipped it into an envelope and addressed it to Mycroft Holmes. She then took one last look at the photo and laid it face down on the desk, the envelope right underneath.

She would walk to the river. It was dark and the weather was bad. No one would notice one tiny woman in a black coat go into the water. The currents were strong and she was weak.  It wouldn’t take long at all and she would be gone. She berated herself for her cowardice but her inner voice could not scold hard enough to stop her.

She slipped on a light coat but left the yellow umbrella in the stand in the foyer. She left her extra set of keys on the hall table as well as her purse. Her ID cards she had placed into a sealed plastic bag that she would zip into the pocket of her fleece. If they didn’t find her for a while she wanted to make sure they could identify the remains.

She took one last look around her at the home that had once made her so happy and put her hand on the door knob. She depressed the latch and was out the door in a moment. It closed silently behind her and she instantly felt as if a great weight had been removed from her chest.  She walked slowly out into the night, the rain and sleet plastering her long hair to her head as she went.  It was only a mile or so to the river and it wouldn’t take her long to walk.

******

The weather was truly foul and Mycroft had popped his umbrella against the rain and sleet as he dashed from the door of his building to his waiting car. Damn and blast the parking ramp maintenance that forced him out into the weather instead of being picked up, warm and dry, in the bowels of the garage. 

He had just got into the car, stowed his umbrella and settled in for the short ride home when his mobile vibrated. Instantly alert, he listened intently to the message and his face turned grave. He tersely gave an address to his driver and urged him to rush. The large black car, which usually kept to a dignified and sedate pace, launched into the night, pressing its occupant into the fine leather of the rear seat as it accelerated.

Reaching the river, Mycroft saw a small, dark form standing on the ledge of the river wall. The Thames ran fast here and the tide was going out. Between the cold and the rapidly moving river, it would be a fatal combination for anyone going into the water. Ordering the driver to stop, he flew out of the car before it had fully come to a halt, not heeding the sharp exclamation of his driver. Sleet blowing sideways hit him in the face as he ran towards the slight figure on the wall, perfectly centered and still in the dark pool between the streetlights.

He slowed his pace and settled a short six feet from her, his heart hammering in his chest and his rapid breath puffing out clouds of steam that rapidly dispersed in the rain and cold wind. His hands were shaking but he willed himself to be still and silent, afraid that any sudden noise or movement would send her over the edge. The lights of the distant car cast odd shadows but he could see her clearly – dressed in a dark fleece and soaked to the skin – trembling on the edge of oblivion.

His voice was soft but urgent. “Molly…Miss Hooper, please get down. You do not want to do this this. I know you are in pain and I am sorry but your life is not over. You are ill and sad and you need help. Please step down off of the wall before it’s too late.”

She didn’t move and made no sign that she had heard him. He took one step closer and her feet stuttered for a moment on the wall and he instantly stopped. Without even turning her head, she squared her shoulders and her arm rose from her side, fingers splayed, motioning him back.

When she finally spoke without turning, her voice was quiet but clear through the storm. “Go away, Mycroft, leave me alone. What do you know of grief, what do you know of love? I lost my husband, I lost my baby and my life is over. What do you know about me aside from the file full of dry details and secret photos you keep in your desk drawer?  Don’t worry, I have told no one about Sherlock and there is no tortured confession in the note I left in our townhouse…” At the word “our”, she began to weep in earnest and she swayed on the wall.

He took one careful step closer; now seeing her wet hair plastered against her her head and the tremor in her body as she fought off the cold and the press of the wind. “Please, Molly, don’t jump. You are right – I know nothing about you and your life and even less about love but I know pain and I know regret and I know what it’s like to love someone only to lose them.’

Molly’s hand dropped to her side, her body slumped and her head cocked sideways as she listened to him through the dark. He could now see the curve of her cheek as her body angled towards him to listen. Good, she was hearing him now and there might be a chance.

“I lost someone, someone I had thought to marry. I met her at university and not even Sherlock knew about her. He suspected and he badgered but this is the first time I have told anyone. She was a Classics major; we met in the library over Sophocles and fell in love.” Mycroft paused and edged a few inches closer to Molly on the wall. “Her name was Vanessa and she was from Edinburgh. She was killed along with her entire family in a plane crash coming back from a winter holiday in Switzerland. The hydraulics in the plane failed and they and 143 others were killed when the plane crashed into the side of a mountain.” Mycroft’s voice strained with emotion. “Vanessa was beautiful with soft grey eyes, auburn hair and a lovely smile. She was kind and good and gentle. In short, she was everything I was not and I was mad for her. I was going to tell her after the New Year that I loved her but I never got the chance and I have always regretted it. She never knew how I felt and since that awful time there has been no one else.”

Mycroft edged another half a foot closer and was now less than three feet from Molly. The wind howled and her shivering increased but she was listening so there was still hope he could talk her down. “I can still see her in my mind’s eye you know. She is young and fresh and beautiful and reaching out to take my hand. If I had only taken it sooner, she might still be here and my life might have been different.”

Mycroft edged closer still and slowly extended his hand to Molly who flinched away from him, her feet unsteady on the wall. The water below was leaden grey and ran rapidly with the outgoing tide.  If Molly were to go off the wall now there would be no hope of saving her. It was now imperative that he talk her down.

“I may not know your pain but I can empathize with your loss. Please take my hand, Molly. Choose life not death.”  Molly turned towards him and even more slowly as not to startle her, he extended his hand and their fingers brushed. So close, so close he thought as he tried to pin her to the wall with his eyes alone. “John loved you like I loved Vanessa and would want you to live and love again. No, it will never be the same but it can get better. It feels impossible now but it’s not too late. Please come down, Molly, for me, for Sherlock and for all of your friends who love and care about you. Please…”

Molly very slowly turned and looked down into Mycroft’s face. She saw what she had never seen before and could have never imagined seeing. He looked grief stricken with fear and hope chasing across his face in equal measure. His eyes were anguished and she was overcome with an irrational urge to reach out and comfort him. She wavered on the wall and slowly extended her hand towards his, her eyes never leaving his face.

Their fingers just brushed for a second time when there was a great blast of wind and Molly’s foot slipped off the back of the wall. She screamed his name and Mycroft darted forward, grabbing her hand and pulling her roughly off the wall into his arms. The relief that coursed through him as he clutched at her was almost overwhelming in its intensity. She was trembling and frigid with cold and with one arm holding her, he pulled off her sopping fleece, dropped it to the ground and opened his coat, pulling her in and wrapping her in a protective barrier of wool.

Molly could hear his rapid breath in her ear and feel the pounding of his heart through his suit jacket. She buried her head into his chest and began to cry in deep wracking sobs. He held her close whispering encouraging words that even he didn’t understand into her ear as he stroked her sodden hair. They stood locked together for several minutes as the wind and sleet pelted down on them.

There was the sound of a clearing throat and Mycroft’s driver, his face creased with concern, spoke. “Sir, the car is warm and waiting. Don’t you think we should get the young lady home?”

Mycroft drew back from Molly and looked down into her face. So thin, so pale, so sad. “Yes, Charles, you are quite right. If you would fetch Miss Hooper’s jacket, I will get her into the car.”

Molly’s eyes were dull and her movements sluggish but she allowed Mycroft to lead her away from the river and back to life. She clutched at his hand like a life line and refused to let it go as he handed her into the car. He slid in beside her and she was instantly in his arms, clinging to him in her silent grief.

She felt hot and her shivering had increased. Her face was ashen and she was nothing but skin and bones and he could feel the sharp points of her shoulder blades through her soaked blouse. When had she last eaten? Why hadn’t he bothered to check on her earlier? He knew she was in a bad place and had simply left her alone to sort it out. His people had told him so but he had ignored their warnings. He was sure she had a fever, was dehydrated and malnourished. He took her tiny wrist in his hand and felt an irregular pulse. She needed medical attention and soon.

The rain drummed down on the roof of the car as he waited for Charles to return. His head was spinning with thoughts. He would take her home, have Mrs. Carlton tend to her and call in his private physician. He would make up for his callous behavior and take care of her until she felt well enough to return home.

Sherlock would be so angry and so disappointed in him. He had charged Mycroft with looking after his friends, especially Molly Hooper, and he had failed spectacularly. She could have died tonight, alone with no one knowing what happened to her. Not acceptable, not acceptable at all.

He unconsciously tightened his grip on the small woman in his arms. She would not die, not on his watch. His driver returned and slipped into the front seat, placing Molly’s soaking jacket on the floor of the passenger seat, a blast of cold air preceding him. “Got it, sir. Is the young lady going to be all right? Do you wish to take her to a hospital?”

“No, Charles, please take us home. I will call my private physician upon arrival and have him evaluate Miss Hooper tonight. Please call ahead to Mrs. Carlton and explain the situation. I want her to be ready to take care of Molly upon our arrival.”

“Yes, sir, right away.” Charles keyed the Bluetooth mobile and pressed a button to raise the glass between the driver seat and the rear of the car. The car slipped silently away from the rushing river and into the London night. Miss Hopper had still not spoken but continued to cling to him. He settled back into the soft leather seat, her head on his chest and her arms tight around him. Unused to such close physical proximity, he shifted uncomfortably but she showed no sign of easing her grip. He softly stroked her now drying hair and talked nonsense into her ear. Slowly, her body relaxed and her grip eased. She had fallen asleep, lulled by his body heat, calm voice and the motion of the car.

Mycroft felt himself relax for the first time in what seemed like hours though less than 40 minutes had passed since he had left his office.  His face was thoughtful as he stared out the window at the rain and the lights of the city as once again he pondered how life could turn so quickly. First there was Sherlock jumping off of a roof and now Molly Hooper almost losing herself to the frigid Thames. She had saved Sherlock and Mycroft had saved her. Appropriate somehow.

Molly’s breath was soft on the side of his neck and her hair smelled like flowers. The poor girl had suffered so and it could have been prevented. He would take her to the residence, have her taken care of and if she chose to recover, turn her loose to live her life again. It was time for Molly Hooper to rejoin the human race and though his mouth turned down when he thought of the challenges she faced, he would do all that he could to help. She had saved Sherlock and for that he owed her everything.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Molly was dreaming. She knew she was dreaming because she was looking at John; a living, breathing John. They were at the townhouse and he was unpacking a crate of paintings. She was standing in the foyer and soft evening light was shining through the stained glass window above the front door.  It looked so normal, so much like a scene from their life she wanted to believe the impossible. She studied him as he worked; he was so beautiful and so alive. His dark hair was mussed and his face was flushed from stooping and when he looked up at her, his face lit up and his brown eyes softened. There was so much love in that gaze that she was overcome with the want of him.

Her breath caught in her throat and she reached out to touch him. The light shining through the windows faded, the door blew open and a cold wind swept through the foyer. As he stood to face her, the painting in his hand began to dissolve into dust, scattering a fine silvery powder across the marble floor. He tilted his head to one side, shrugged and looked at her sadly. “I’m so sorry, my love, so sorry”.  He turned away from her and as he did, the color slowly leached from his face and he too began dissolving into dust, the wind from the open door swirling the fine particles across the floor.

She tried to reach him but couldn’t move. Tears ran down her face and a fierce flame of grief and loss tore through her. He turned and looked at her one last time, there was one more blast of wind and he was gone. She was alone in the cold, dark foyer and she fell to her knees. The door slammed shut with a bang and the foyer was plunged into silence. Her grief turned to fear as the very foundation of the house groaned and the walls seemed to tilt into a dark, twisted facsimile of her beautiful home.

There was a horrible crack and she swiveled her eyes towards the sound. What flashed before her eyes next was so horrible and so wrong that she jerked her head as if to look away but could not. A strange columnar thing shot up through the floor, its head set at an impossible angle, a leering gash of a mouth and eyes wide, senseless and insane. It was white and black and grey and it had John, or what was left of John, clutched in its skeletal arms. John’s head was tucked under its pointed chin and there was no expression on his face. She screamed but the thing paid her no mind and shot straight up like a ghastly elevator and vanished through the ceiling, a dead streak in the dark, dragging John with it.  

Her breath came in short bursts and she felt a great weight settle on her chest. She was crying uncontrollably now and her misery was compounded by a burning pain in her head and throat. She felt a wave of heat and then a blast of cold. She couldn’t breathe, started to cough and sagged to the hard marble floor her cheek flat against the cold stone. Her face was wet. Why was her face wet?  She turned and the hard marble softened and molded to her weight.

Molly half woke and all she knew was that her head felt like it was on fire, her vision was blurry and her coughs rattled her lungs. She was in bed in a dimly lit room that was not her own. She raised her hand to her face and felt tears. The dream had been so real and so horrible. Her head was so heavy she could barely lift it and her breathing was shallow. She was alternately freezing and roasting under the down coverlet and she knew she had a fever. The dream sat like a stone in her heart and now that she was somewhat awake, the terror and grief of it burned her soul. John was dead and he wasn’t ever coming back.

Must get up, must find out where she was and then go home. Her mind was sluggish but she remembered the rain, the cold and her walk to the river. Had Mycroft been there? She tried to focus but the memory swam away before it could take shape. She sat up slowly and eased her legs off of the bed. Her head was spinning but she pushed herself to her feet and stood swaying for a moment when a fierce bout of coughing seized her and a burning wave of pain shot through her lungs. Pneumonia, she thought, she had pneumonia. She took one step and then fell gracelessly in a heap on the soft thick carpet. Cooler down here, she thought stupidly as she looked up at the soft glow of a bedside lamp. She dimly thought that the carpet was pretty; ambers and greys woven in an intricate pattern.

She heard rapid footsteps in the hall, the door opened and a woman’s anxious voice cut through her mental fog.  “Mister Mycroft, she’s fallen. Poor dear, can you help me get her back to bed?” A soft hand gently touched her cheek. “Oh dear, she is burning up. Where is that doctor? He was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago.” 

“Mrs. Carlton, please stand aside. It is a foul night and Morgan will be here as soon as he can. Damn the man, he’d better be or I will have his head. ”

Yes, thought Molly, it was Mycroft all right. Prissy and demanding as always. She felt a slight compression of the thick carpet as Mycroft, with a gentleness that she would have never thought possible, knelt and lifted her from the floor, carefully balancing her so her head tucked into the curve of his shoulder. He was warm and his grey wool jumper was soft beneath her cheek and he smelled good. How could such a bastard smell so good?  He stood briefly with her in his arms and then Mrs. Carton joined him, helping cradle her head as he lay her back in bed.

Molly looked up at the two worried faces: one an older woman with gentle manner and the other a middle aged man with stern face and steely blue eyes. Mycroft, yes. It was Sherlock’s older brother. What was he doing here? He had a Mrs. Hudson too? How odd. She started to remember something about his hand reaching out to her in the darkness but it was all too hard and she gave herself up to sleep.  Her last lucid thought was a hope that her rest would be deep and dreamless and that if she was very lucky, the pneumonia would finish the job she had started.

******

Mycroft stared out the car window at the grey London day. He was bone tired and wanted to do nothing more than to secret himself in his bedroom at the residence and sleep for an indeterminate period. It had been touch and go for Miss Hooper for several days as her body fought off the pneumonia that was trying to kill her. The drugs appeared to be winning; lucky for her and very lucky indeed for Mycroft who was still berating himself for not acting sooner to help her.

He had been uncomfortable sitting even for brief periods at her bedside. Her grey skin, gaunt face combined with her violent coughing made him exceptionally uneasy. Arm’s distance had not worked with Miss Hooper and he had almost lost her. Had she disappeared under his watch, his brother would have been very angry indeed. Sherlock was loyal to his goldfish and this goldfish in particular. Now that the drama of her ill-fated attempt at jumping into the Thames had faded, Mycroft had once again regained his perspective and regretted his frankness with her that night in the dark. It had been a tactical error letting her inside of his protective boundaries. He only hoped that she had been too ill and stressed to remember the drivel he had spewed to talk her off of the wall. It was all true, worse luck. He was embarrassed at his admission and yet strangely relieved. It had been a blessed release to let go of the guilt and regret and tell someone, even if that someone was Molly Hooper.

Mycroft’s face tightened as he thought back to that night. Dr. Morgan had finally arrived, whiskey on his breath, and under the critical eye and blatant disapproval of Mrs. Carlton, had examined Molly. Her condition had quickly wiped away any residual alcohol remaining in Morgan’s system and his face was grave as he explained her condition to Mycroft. She had serious pneumonia, a high fever, and all of her vitals were low. She was dangerously underweight and dehydrated and her lungs were partially filled with fluid. Although he was not recommending hospital, he immediately gave Molly an injection of powerful antibiotics and made several phone calls ordering in-home nursing care, a hospital bed and other medical supplies. Within an hour of his arrival, the nurse was in place, the bed had been delivered and Molly was hooked to an IV to bring up her fluid levels and alleviate her pain.

Morgan had looked at Mycroft wearily. “She should be better in 3-5 days if she responds well to the antibiotics. It is critical as she gets stronger for her to clear her lungs. The drugs in the IV should help her cough productively as well as break up the mucus. If her breathing does not improve or gets worse, please call me immediately as she may need hospitalization for respiratory therapy.” He shook his head. “What on earth was she doing out on a night like this with no coat or umbrella? What is wrong with young people these days?”

Mycroft said nothing but nodded as if in concurrence with the doctor as he showed him to the door. That was Molly’s tale to tell and he would keep it close and in confidence. The young woman had suffered enough and did not need anyone nattering at her about the treacheries of depression after she recovered. Once she was stronger and better able to cope he would have words with her himself but what was needed now was discretion and care. However, thought Mycroft darkly, she still wasn’t talking except in monosyllables and she would not meet his eyes when he stopped in to check on her in the late afternoons.

The car pulled up to her townhouse and Mycroft felt for the key that his staff had delivered to the residence this morning. He knew Miss Hooper had a cat and though he had covered for her at work with a few simple phone calls, he wanted to go to her house himself, deal with the animal and see if she had left any clues as to what had finally pushed her to take such desperate measures.

He left the car and looked up at the Smith residence. It was a fine old townhouse of two floors with what looked to be a rooftop deck. Fashion forward neighborhood but charming; just where Mycroft thought the young John Smith might live. Bidding his driver to drive on, Mycroft walked up the front steps, his eyes scanning the street and taking in the deep red entry door. It was paneled, almost nine feet tall and the glossy paint would have been brilliant if not for the fog and drizzle. As it was, it glowed like a heart in the grey stone façade of the house. Key in his gloved hand, he reached out to insert it in the lock when he noticed a series of faint scratches around the keyhole and several tiny chips in the otherwise flawless paint on the jam. Very carefully, without touching the door surface, he slowly backed away. Someone had picked the lock and jimmied the bolt and though they had been careful, they had left subtle traces of an inspired amateur.

Now on high alert, Mycroft retrieved his mobile from his coat pocket and retreated down the stairs. His eyes never leaving the door, he keyed his mobile and spoke quickly and quietly, ordering back up before he entered the townhouse. He was almost certain it was empty but was not willing to take the chance of being surprised. He was not as precipitous as his little brother and was happy to say that he had never been on the wrong end of a gun or knife and was highly committed to keeping it that way.

An anonymous black car pulled up and three men emerged. They looked ordinary enough but Mycroft knew them to be well trained and well-armed professionals under their ubiquitous grey and navy suits. They met his eye and he looked pointedly at the door, raising one eyebrow after handing off the key, advising them to take great care. Two were to enter the townhouse, search it thoroughly and subdue anyone who might be inside. The third would stand guard at the side street should an intruder decide to flee through the back garden. Only when given the all clear would Mycroft enter himself to assess and analyze the situation.

He stood on the street, hands deep in the pockets of his woolen overcoat, watched the fog swirl around the street lamps and wished he had a cigarette. A faint hint of freesia lingered on his coat; Miss Hooper’s perfume. Pleasant scent, fresh and young just like her. He turned away from the wind, hunching his shoulders against the cold. Winter was coming and the last of the autumn blue skies were clearly behind them. Miss Hooper’s domestic tragedy had just taken on an even darker tone and he didn’t like it one bit. He hoped he was wrong but in his heart of hearts, he knew was not.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Another week had passed and Molly did improve though her small body was wracked with coughing and she was seldom awake. She was breathing better and taking nourishment in small amounts. She was weak though, so weak that she still needed assistance to get to the loo though once through the door she could mostly manage on her own. The nurses who came and went throughout the days and nights were a blur to her but Mrs. Carlton had been a blessing, asking no hard questions, bringing her news of the outside world and offering her nothing but kindness. Her gentle chattiness had made the pain in Molly’s lungs and throat and head seem less harsh through the first few days when her fever had raged unabated.

Molly knew it had been close for her and only the strong antibiotics, the codeine and the life giving fluids in the IV had gotten her through the worst of things. Her body had responded, fiercely clinging to life and slowly healing itself, but she felt empty. Even her deep grief seemed distant to her as if only vaguely perceived through a grey scrim that had descended on her mind. Of Mycroft she had seen very little and that was just fine with her. He made a habit of stopping by sometimes in the late afternoon but those visits were brief and awkward. She did not want to see him and he never stayed long. The thought of going back to the townhouse was anathema to her and her comfort zone, as frail as it was, had narrowed to the confines of this amber and grey room – only the subtle shift of light through the sheers covering the windows marking the passage of days and nights.

Soon she was taken off of the IV and the course of antibiotics were finished. She had risen from her bed and spent most days in a wing chair near the window, looking down at an enclosed garden. Mycroft’s staff had supplied her with clothes but she had no desire to get dressed. The leaves had turned and were starting to fall and the winds and rains of November blurred the view as the days progressively got shorter. It would be Christmas soon for all that meant to her now. She would be alone this year and dreaded going back to the townhouse and back to work.

Mycroft had recently come by to see her and she knew immediately something had changed. He looked more uncomfortable than usual and she knew something was wrong. He stood awkwardly by the door and after stiffly asking after her health he came straight to the point.

“I stopped by to check on your townhouse yesterday. There had been an intrusion.” His face was inscrutable when he told her that though the house had shown signs of being searched, there had been no damage and there was nothing obvious missing. She had been vaguely interested but soon her eyes drifted from his face to the garden below and that was the end of the one sided conversation.

“Miss Hooper”, he said sharply, “I acknowledge both your illness and your grief but I need you to pay attention. You cannot remain hidden away here indefinitely and your home has been compromised.”

She looked at him with tired eyes and when she spoke her voice was gravelly from disuse. “I don’t really care, Mycroft.” She looked past him and continued, “I hadn’t exactly planned on going back there anyway.”

“Perhaps not but fortunately for you fate intervened. You have recovered adequately and though I am not so unfeeling as to imply you are ready to “move on”, he paused and winced inwardly at his choice of words, good god how he hated that trite phrase, “it is time, Miss Hooper, to make some decisions. You must know the best thing for you is to return to work, return to your home, face your loss and get on with your life.”

Molly felt a quick flash of anger quickly followed by a deep shame. “How dare you tell me what I need? Who asked you to interfere? What do you care?” She stood unsteadily and almost tripped on the hem of her long bathrobe. Mycroft reached out to catch her and she jerked back, hissing at him. “Don’t touch me.”

Using the wing chair for support, she retreated to the window.  “I know what I have to do Mycroft, you don’t have to lecture me. I am an adult and I don’t need you or anyone telling me what to do now. I can take care of myself.”

“Very well, if that is the case, I highly recommend you get dressed and start doing just that. We are going to your townhouse and you will participate in a search. I will not allow you to languish here any longer wallowing in self-pity. I need you clothed and downstairs in ten minutes. Do not make me wait.” He gave her a hard look, strode across the room and was gone.

Molly stood for a moment, feeling weak and unsteady after her sudden surge of anger. Who was he anyway to be telling her what she should do? Her shoulders slumped and she hung her head. If it hadn’t been for Mycroft she would have had no more choices to make, she would have been yet another corpse dredged up from the Thames. She hated the fact he was right and resented him for knowing how pitiful she really was. She couldn’t even commit suicide properly.

She looked into the mirror for the first time in weeks and was shocked at how thin and grey she looked. How had she let herself go so far and not asked for help? Mycroft was right, she had to rouse herself and get on with things. John would have been so disappointed in her for giving up. Her eyes welled up but she shook off the urge to go back to bed, curl up into a ball and deny the world. Shaking slightly, she opened the closet and started pulling out the unfamiliar clothes. Mycroft was waiting and he would brook no delay. 

******

 Mycroft strode down the hall after leaving Molly. He knew far more than he had let on but wanted to see how she reacted. He had been harsh with her but had been correct in his thinking that she had not been broken by her husband’s death. Shaken to the core, yes. Depressed and needful of counseling or a grief   group, yes.  But broken?  Far from it and though he had hidden his relief at her rising anger under a mask of irritation, he felt better than he had in weeks about her. She was at least feeling something and anger was far better than the lassitude that had gripped her since that night at the river. She would live and learn to make her way in the world again.

Sherlock would be pleased, not that it mattered at this point. His prize Molly would still be here on his return, slightly worse for wear but alive. However, the break in at her townhouse was troubling. It had not been a random thief looking to take advantage of an absent owner. The searching had been too targeted and too subtle. No matter, Mycroft had seen fit to have his people upgrade the townhouse security system and replace the existing antique front and back door locks with state of the art reinforced steel hardware. It still looked suitably Victorian but was infinitely more secure. Several discreet CCTV cameras had been added to the interior and exterior as well though he would not tell Miss Hooper of their presence.

******

Once the house had been cleared for entry, Mycroft once more mounted the front stairs and entered the private world of John and Molly Smith. He had felt uncomfortable walking through the house, as if he were prying into a deeply intimate part of Molly’s life. The house was warm, inviting and eclectic, very much like John Smith’s bookshop. There was art in every room and a library to rival his own rather extensive and rare collection. 

Whoever had searched the house, had done so systematically and with a light touch. There were no finger prints and no discernable fibers or dirt on the floors. The search had been done soon after Molly’s walk to the river as there was a thin layer of dust on the horizontal surfaces which had not been disturbed for at least a few weeks. There was something not quite right about the floorplan but he was tired to puzzle it out and it would come to him later if it really mattered.

The sad little tableau on the foyer demilune had disturbed him in its neatness. He paused before turning the photo right side up, uncovering the pale blue envelope addressed to him in Molly’s neat hand. Her house keys sat in a Japanese bowl to the right, her blaring orange purse next to it and her appalling yellow umbrella along with several more muted partners stood in a stand near the door.

His face was pensive as he studied the photograph. Young and happy and so confident that their lives would go on forever. He carefully set the photo in an upright position and as he did so, he looked at his reflection in the Italian antique mirror above the table. How had he gotten so old? So grim?

Turning away from his weary self-assessment, he picked up the envelope, slipped the single sheet out and started to read.

_Dear Mycroft,_

_If you are reading this letter then you must know by now I am gone. You are the only person I could think of these past few weeks that might understand my actions and not judge me too harshly. Funny how things turn out, me thinking of you as understanding. But, for some unknown reason, I believe in my heart that you will understand._

_Please forgive me, but I went into the river not far from here and the tide was running high. I have zipped my ID card into the pocket of my fleece in case I am not found right away. I know what water can do to a body so I am trying to make it easier. Sorry, it’s not going to very pleasant for you. Can’t be helped, I guess. I have made arrangements to be cremated and interred with John._

_Please tell our mutual friend that I love him but I just could not carry on after John died. He will be hurt and troubled and I want you to try to make him understand and take care of him for me. You have always done so, and in spite of your differences, he relies on you and loves you more than you know._

_Please find a good home for Toby if Mrs. Tolliver, my neighbor on our left hand side, cannot take him. He is a sweetheart and loves people so it shouldn’t be too difficult. We have a will on file with our solicitor that should take care of the cremation and disposition of the townhouse and its contents. John’s shop is left in its entirety to his partner, Rufus Gibson._

_So, Mycroft, I guess this is goodbye. I wish you well and thank you for your care of me and the rest of our small band of friends. I trust you will find this letter as soon as your people inform you that I have not turned up in the usual places. Do not blame yourself. I knew what I was doing and there would have been nothing you could have done to stop me._

_Your friend,_

_Molly Hooper Smith_

Her friend? An exaggeration at best and an outright lie at the worst. He had been a friend to none of Sherlock’s little band and only had them under surveillance at first because of their oddly powerful influence on his brother. Then, after the fall, because of a reluctant promise to the same.

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed deeply before slipping the letter back into its envelope and then into an inner jacket pocket. Molly’s letter had upset and surprised him. Why him?  Did she have no other more compassionate friend to entrust with her last thoughts and words in this life? He thought of his own dry and stilted will residing at his solicitor’s office. All his worldly goods were left to Sherlock and there was no last message, nothing personal to betray any human connection with anyone other than his brother.

He turned to make his exit when there was a sudden pounding on the door. Mycroft paused, carefully opened it and came face to face with two members of the local constabulary. They were looking at him suspiciously and the older one spoke. “We got a call just now that reported a possible breaking and entering at this address. Could we please see some form of identification?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, stood very straight and complied with the request. Their eyebrows went up in surprise and they quickly handed the ID back to him. “Sorry Mr. Holmes, a neighbor called to report that strangers had entered this address. She was quite adamant that she was worried about the owner and had seen strange folks about. We had no idea the government was involved.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps the neighbor had seen the person who had broken in. “Thank you, officers, but the government is not involved. I am just a friend of Molly Hooper. She has been quite ill and is staying with me. She asked me to come over with some mutual friends to check on the house as she has not been well enough to do it herself. As you can see, my friends have left and I was just about to leave myself. All is well here and Miss Hooper should return home soon. If you have doubts, please call Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard as he will confirm my identity. So, if you don’t mind…”

Mycroft had not finished speaking when a small, nervous woman appeared behind the officers with a cat carrier. The occupant was none too happy and was yowling like the very devil. Distracted by the noisome feline and obviously wanting access, the little woman peered suspiciously around the officer’s backs. This must be the Mrs. Tolliver mentioned in Molly’s letter, thought Mycroft.

“You see, I told you. Strange men in bespoke suits coming and going in long, black cars. Where is that Molly Hooper? She said she would be back in a week and it has been almost three.” She looked aggrieved and directed her complaint to anyone of the three men who might listen. “I don’t mind doing favors as she has had such a hard time these past months, but I cannot keep this animal one more minute as my husband has terrible allergies.”  She shook the carrier eliciting yet another round of yowling from the occupant who Mycroft could now see was a large orange tabby.

Mycroft spoke in his best placating voice. “Madam, I am so sorry for your troubles. Miss Hooper has been ill but is recovering. I would be happy to take the animal off your hands.” He turned to the two officers, “Thank you for your time but I think I can handle it from here.” Looking relieved at escaping a still grumbling Mrs. Tolliver and howling cat, the officers quickly retreated out the door, down the steps and into their waiting car.

Following them, he quietly shut the door. “Now Mrs. Tolliver, please allow me to take the carrier. I am very sorry that I and my friends upset you today. It was not our intention to cause any trouble.”

Looking somewhat mollified, the small woman gave the case to Mycroft who placed it on the foyer floor. The cat instantly fell silent, watching them with wide golden eyes. “Now, you told the officers that you reported strange men coming and going. Is that just today or have there been others?”

She looked pained but responded to his good manners. “I don’t mean to talk out of school but there were at least two gentlemen who have stopped by, once together and then one on his own several times. The one in particular looked quite put out but I haven’t seen him in at least a week. Must have given up.” She shrugged and turned to go.

“If you don’t mind, could you describe the gentleman who was so put out?”

“He was about your height and fair. He had a somewhat florid face and was a bit overweight. His hair was curly and he was badly in need of a haircut. Dressed well in what looked like a bespoke suit, mouse brown with a chalk stripe.” She looked carefully at Mycroft, taking in his fine tailoring with a critical eye. “Not as nicely dressed as you and he was wearing an appalling green tie. I think I may have seen him with John before but I really can’t be sure as it’s been a long time since…well, you know.”

Mycroft nodded. “What about the other one?”

Mrs. Tolliver crinkled her nose. “Looked rough, that one. He was shorter and dark and but the big one seemed afraid of him. Did not see much of his face but he looked pale. He was also dressed well but was all in black. If he would have come back, I would have called the coppers much earlier.” She paused and looked worried. “Do you think they are coming back?”

“Doubtful, but if they do, here is my card. You may call it day or night.” Mrs. Tolliver looked at the card and let out a squeak and backed away from Mycroft, her eyes wide.

“Are you one of those secret agent chappies like on the BBC1?” She clutched the card and backed even further towards the door.

Mycroft winced inwardly, smiled his best polite smile and no warmth reached his eyes. Time for this observant but irritatingly stupid person to leave. “No, just a humble servant of the British government. I shall certainly pass along your neighborly concern to Miss Hooper. She will be returning home soon and am sure will appreciate you keeping an eye on things here. Thank you for your time Mrs. Tolliver.” The little woman looked a bit taken aback at this obvious dismissal, took one more nervous glance at him and was out the door, casting furtive looks at him over her shoulder as she returned to her adjacent house.

Mycroft silently closed the door and was once again alone in the house except for the still silent Toby.  No choice in the matter but to bring the beast back to the residence and have Mrs. Carlton look after it. Perhaps the animal would have a palliative effect on Miss Hooper. It had been an informative, if odd, afternoon but it was time to return home and think on how to proceed.

 He looked one more time at the photo of the young couple, so full of hope and love for each other. John Smith was gone but Miss Hooper had lived. He had pulled her back from the brink and felt even more responsible for her than he had before. Picking up the cat carrier and easing the door shut behind him, he keyed his mobile to summon his driver. The issue would have to be forced and he was just the man to do it.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Molly had stepped out of the residence and her senses were assaulted by light and cold and the noise on the street. Her eyes dazzled and her heart beating hard, she stumbled slightly as she stepped off of the curb and Mycroft took her elbow, steadying her as he handed her into the car. This time she did not pull away. He carefully made sure she was settled, walked around the back of the car and got in himself. Their eyes met briefly across the wide back seat as the car pulled into the street but then silence reigned.

London looked like a foreign place to her – too bright, too loud and too real after the silence and isolation of the residence. She could feel her anxiety rising as they drew near to the townhouse. How many times had she and John walked these streets? Would she ever be able to walk the same paths and take joy in them again?

They pulled up to the curb and Molly, still not looking at the house, clutched the door handle, her knuckles white. Mycroft gave her a long look as he exited the sedan and came round to hand her out.

The door swung open and Mycroft looked down at her as if gauging her strength. His face was neutral and calm. Molly returned his steady gaze and though her hands were shaking, she nodded and took his hand. It was warm and steady and she did not release it as they stepped up onto the sidewalk and she looked up at the façade of her home. Funny how everything and nothing had changed.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked quietly as they walked up the steps. Upon reaching the stoop, he dropped her hand and looked down into her pale face. He no longer seemed impatient or aggravated with her.

“Yes, a bit shaky but better as you are here. I am glad I don’t have to do this alone.”

Mycroft nodded and handed her the key. She inserted and turned it, hesitating for a moment before opening the door. Her thoughts went back to her dream and its horrible images but when the door swung open all she saw was her lovely foyer, exactly how she had left it so many days ago. She felt a surge of relief, her hands steadied and she drew her first real breath since they departed the residence. Well, not exactly the same, as the photo of she and John had been set upright and her letter she had left for Mycroft was gone.

Molly felt a flush of shame rise from her chest to her face. Not looking at Mycroft, she walked up to the demilune and stared at the photo.

“You read my letter.”

“Yes, I did.” He looked uneasy and continued, “I had no idea that you were so badly off. My staff had informed me you seemed depressed and looked ill. I chose to ignore it thinking it was a normal part of the mourning process. I was obviously wrong and I have regretted my callousness ever since.”

She reached out to straighten the photo from happier times and then looked up into his face with a faint smile. “Not your fault, Mycroft. Neither you nor Sherlock are very good at such things and I chose my path. I am not your responsibility, no matter what kind of promise you made to your brother before he left. I left the letter for you as I had to say goodbye to Sherlock and only risked the message as I knew you would be the first one to check on me. I am sure you have always considered me a security risk. Predictable since you really don’t care about me though I know you care about Sherlock.”

Mycroft shifted in discomfort. “I am still very sorry. I am the smarter one, I should have foreseen such an eventuality. I hate admitting I have limitations, but in matters of the heart…” he shook his head and pursed his lips, still angry at himself. “I care in my own way.”

Molly felt something tight loosen in her chest and her eyes blurred slightly. She looked into his face and saw the same struggle she had seen that night at the river. It came to her suddenly that he felt things deeply underneath his cool and uncaring mask. Not stopping to think what she was doing, she stepped up to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. Looking up at him, her brown eyes steady, she spoke. “It’s all right, Mycroft, you saved me in the end and that’s all that matters.”

He looked down at the small woman, her face so earnest, and he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. She was going to be all right, he had helped her be all right and for now that was enough. He stepped back from her brief touch and the moment was over.

All business now, he walked into the sitting room and removed his overcoat. “I think its best we walk through the house together. I don’t know what I am seeing and though I am astute enough to know if something has been moved or searched, only you can identify any missing items. Do you concur?”

Molly nodded and leaving her coat in the sitting room as well, they began bracketing the lower floor looking for anything that might give away who might have broken in. Mycroft stayed close to her, a comforting presence in the too silent house.

“Do you see?” he asked as they passed from the library into John’s office.

“Yes,” said Molly, noting the small but obvious changes; a file drawer that had been closed left slightly open, the files on John’s desk set on the horizontal instead of the vertical. She walked to a painting of a ship under sail and swung it back to reveal a small wall safe.

She looked at Mycroft and raised her eyebrows. He shook his head and she knew he and his men had not tried to open it. She punched in the access code and swung the tempered steel door open. She reached inside and drew out a second steel box with a sesame lock. She turned the tumblers until they all clicked home and opened the lid. Rummaging through the box, she came up with an old mine cut diamond ring still in its case, a multitude of papers and a small bundle of pound notes.

“Nothing is missing.” She put the money and papers back in the box and looked at the vintage ring.

“John gave this ring to me on the night he proposed. It was his grandmothers and he wanted me to have it.  I wore it for a while but it made me nervous having to take it off at work. I was afraid I would lose it, forget it somewhere or damage it, so after we were married, we both opted for plain gold bands and the diamond went into the safe.”

She paused and put her hand back into the box replacing the diamond and drawing out a small velvet bag. She opened it and withdrew two rose gold wedding bands, one tiny and one much larger. “I took mine off, you see. I took John’s off before he was cremated and put it in the safe. That night…” her voice caught. “That night I decided to go into the water, I took mine off too and put it in here with his.” She looked at the rings for another moment, before putting them both back into the velvet bag, setting them gently into the box, closing the lid and spinning the tumblers. Her hands shaking again, she put the steel box back into the wall safe and shut the door.

When she turned, Mycroft stood looking at her, his face grim. She shrugged. “Sorry, too much information I know.  It helps though, talking about things. Makes it a bit less sad and desperate.” She swung the painting back over the safe and shifted the conversation back onto safer ground.  “Someone has been in here, but the safe has been undisturbed and there is nothing else of any value missing.”

She walked over to the lateral file behind John’s desk and carefully opened the drawer that had been disturbed. Moving very slowly as not to shift anything, her eye caught several file folders that were slightly askew. She looked at Mycroft. “Have you?”  He nodded and she pulled the files and set them on the desk. She opened several, flipped through the contents and looked puzzled.

“John was very organized when it came to his acquisition of books and art. He kept each bill of lading and delivery receipt along with a packing slip from the shipping crates. Some of those records are definitely missing and most of those are for shipments of art.” She gave Mycroft a puzzled look, “Why would someone want to take those records? They have no value. I just don’t understand.”

“Nor do I and it is very odd indeed. When was the last shipment delivered?”

She looked up, realization dawning on her face. “Oh goodness, I know what is missing.” She rose and retraced their steps back to the foyer. “John had unpacked a shipment of art a few days before he died. He left the empty crate in the foyer and neither of us had the time to call Rufus, John’s partner, to pick it up. It had been pushed up against the far wall and now it’s gone. Why would anyone want an old crate? It’s not even good wood.”

She stood looking at the empty space and then looked at Mycroft. His brow was creased and she could almost see the gears moving as he thought.

“Describe the type of crate to me please.” Mycroft closed his eyes as Molly spoke, her voice still puzzled.

“The crates are a little over a meter in length and about twenty five centimeters wide depending on the shape and size of the paintings shipped. They are made of wood and are quite heavy before the paintings are unpacked. Afterwards, they are awkward but even I can move them about fairly easily.”

Mycroft stooped to examine the floor. Yes, there was a subtle, slightly scuffed outline of where the crate had sat on the shiny marble. He shook his head at himself for not noticing it before. Very sloppy and not like him at all.  This business was too fraught with emotion and it was affecting his ability to see things clearly. His worry over Miss Hooper and emotional involvement was not helping at all. Why had he let this woman get under his skin?  He had to focus.

Uttering a huff of frustration at himself, he rose to his feet. Nothing could be done about him walking right past what was now glaringly obvious. However, he had again detected a small aberration in the floorplan. There was something off about the room layout on this floor as it did not quite match the second floor which seemed somehow more spacious.

“Is there another room on this floor? A hidden room?” He looked inquiring at Molly.

She looked at him and her hand came up to her mouth. “Oh my goodness, the hidey hole. I forgot the hidey hole.”

Mycroft looked at her as if she were mad. “The what?”

She rolled her eyes. “John was from the north, you know. He said it was a term he and his friends used as children and came from the old Scots term “hiding hole”. He thought the name was hilarious and much more apropos than panic room or secret room. It was a private joke between the two of us.”

She went swiftly into the sitting room and walked over to one of the tall bookcases. She removed several books, placing them on a side table and pulled on a wooden handle that was recessed flush with the wood. The bookcase swung open silently, revealing a room slightly larger than a small closet. In it was a chair, a small table graced by an old Bakelite phone and a series of wall shelfs.

Molly looked at Mycroft, an embarrassed expression on her face. “I forgot completely about it, I am so sorry. I have only been in here once and that was when John showed it to me after I first moved in.  It backs right onto the kitchen and was originally a butler’s pantry back in the day. A previous owner who wanted to enlarge the kitchen tore out most of the pantry but left this small space and turned it into a secret room. Sorry, I should have remembered.”

Mycroft cautiously entered the small room. Claustrophobic and very dusty but the land line still worked as evidenced by the dial tone heard when he lifted the heavy old hand set. “Is there anything missing?”

Molly followed him into the small space and looked around. “No nothing missing but I don’t remember this bag being here.” She reached under the table and came up with a small bag from an exclusive London jeweler. Her face went pale and she pushed past Mycroft back into the sitting room and sat down in a wing chair.

Mycroft followed and watched with growing apprehension as she withdrew small wrapped box from the bag.  She turned the bag upside down and was disappointed when only silvery tissue paper fell to the carpet. She had been hoping for a card, hoping for a last few words but had been deeply disappointed. She stared at the box for a moment, her throat working, and then very gently peeled away the soft green wrapping, carefully smoothing it out and placing it on the side table. A slim velvet box sat in her hand and she looked up at Mycroft, her eyes heavy with sadness.

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably at the sight of what was presumably a gift from her dead husband. It was obvious what was going to happen now and he dreaded it. She had been doing so well. He had seen faint vestiges of her former self as they had searched the house and all that was now in question. He wished that he had never asked her about the inconsistencies in the floorplan – not if it had robbed her eyes of the brief flash of her spirit as they had tried to puzzle out the break in together.

She looked at him as if asking permission and though he knew it would it would be a mistake, he nodded silently, his face purposely blank. She held the box in her lap and slowly opened the lid. Her eyes welled up but no tears fell.

“John loved to give me pretty things but he knew that if he ever wanted me to wear jewelry it would have to be simple and appropriate to wear every day. We had gone to an exhibit at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich this last spring, stood on opposite sides of the meridian line like two goofy tourists and then went to the planetarium show. It was beautiful - so many stars in an endless field of wonder - and half way through the show, holding my hand in the dark, he whispered that we would be together through infinity.”

Molly smiled through her tears and her voice broke as she lifted a delicate necklace from the velvet box. “Eternity, empowerment and everlasting love – how like John to remember that afternoon.” She held the necklace up and Mycroft moved closer and lifted the small symbol, wrought delicately in silver, diamonds and sapphires. It was a finely rendered lemniscate, the symbol for infinity, and it sparkled in Mycroft’s palm.

He said nothing as he gently returned the necklace to Molly. She gave him a tight smile and though her hands shook as she fastened the tiny clasp at the nape of her neck, she did not give up until she was sure it was secure, the small symbol nestled just below the hollow of her neck. She met his eyes and sat up straight, taking a deep breath to steady herself. Her face was wet with tears but she seemed somehow stronger, as if this small gift had given her the determination she had lacked just hours before.

Reaching into his inside suit jacket pocket, Mycroft handed her his handkerchief. “Are you up to checking the second floor? Those are far more personal spaces and you may wish to have your privacy as you go through them. I need to make a few phone calls and check my email.  Do you mind very much doing this on your own?” He raised one eyebrow and cocked his head as he waited for her answer.

Molly took the handkerchief, wiped her eyes and shoved it into the deep pocket of her cardigan. She was wrung out but getting back to their task was just what she needed. She stood, picked up the now empty velvet box and stowed it inside the gift bag.

“No, I don’t mind. If I find anything, I will let you know.” She turned away and started to cross the room but turned back to Mycroft, “Please make yourself at home. There is mineral water in the kitchen as well as tea things. I am not up to being a hostess right now, I’m sure you understand.”  She turned again left the room.

He heard her soft steps on the stairs and let out a deep breath he had not been aware he had been holding. This last bit had been very hard for her and she was stronger than he had thought. Disaster averted, for now at least. He withdrew his mobile from his jacket and keyed the number for the residence, his face thoughtful. She could not return here alone, of that he was certain. She was still too fragile and would need someone to ease her transition back into her new life. Luckily for him, he would not need to look far for that person.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

It had been two weeks since Molly had left the residence. Mycroft had somehow managed to smooth things over at Bart’s and though her sick leave was mostly exhausted, her job was safe and her colleagues were looking forward to having her back. She had settled back into the townhouse and was on the verge of returning to work. She was still trying to adjust to her new reality but she was coming back to herself and remembering how to enjoy life again. She had been fearful that first day but the moment she and Mrs. Carlton had stepped through her front door, all she had felt was relief.

The morning of her departure from the residence Mycroft saw her and Mrs. Carlton to the back portico where a sleek black car was waiting. She had mostly recovered from her illness and was no longer grey with fatigue. She had made the decision to move back home a few days after their search of the townhouse and though she was still concerned about the theft of the shipping carton and paperwork, Mycroft had reassured her that her security status would remain high, the new locks on her doors were stout and that he and his people would be watching.

He had insisted that Emma Carlton accompany Molly back to the townhouse and move in temporarily to help her with the transition back into her normal life. Molly had objected at first but had come to see his reasoning and had capitulated. Once the decision had been made, she was actually looking forward to having Emma at the house. She did not want to be alone and as much as she did not want to admit it, Mycroft was right; Emma was the perfect person to ease the way.

Luggage loaded and with Toby howling in his carrier in the back seat of the car while Mrs. Carlton tried in vain to quiet him, Molly stood next to the open door of the car, calmly looking at Mycroft. There had been some tense moments after that day in the townhouse and she had still not fully recovered from the worst of them. Their fragile relationship had been strained and although she was grateful to him for seeing her through, she was not sorry to be leaving. She needed some distance and that had been hard to come by living in the same house. She hoped that things would resolve themselves but seriously doubted he would chose to seek her out after today unless new evidence was uncovered.

She didn’t quite know how to feel. She knew she would miss him as perverse as that seemed. He had saved her, sheltered her, challenged her and forced her back to the light. She was deeply grateful and yet she resented him for knowing so much about her. How he might use that knowledge against her in the future?

Perhaps they were even now. She had saved Sherlock and he had saved her. A debt had been owed and a debt had been paid. If that were true, why was she so conflicted about walking away from him?

His expression was cool and he had gone into polite control mode as he walked her from breakfast in the library to the back doors. Overly polite, overly formal and distancing himself from her with every step. He was obviously relieved she would soon be out of his hair and it made Molly a bit melancholy. She had hoped for a brief moment that they might be friends after all they had been through but she guessed caring in his way did not include such sentimental attachments. He had withdrawn from her after that awful day when they had fought and she had been too hurt to try to bridge the rift.

She was the first to speak, her voice quiet. “Thank you, Mycroft, for everything. I am sorry about the last few days. I was angry and you caught the worst of it. I know you are only trying to help.” She turned to get into the car when she felt his hand on her arm stopping her where she stood.

She looked up at him and his face was a study. He looked conflicted and his face, far from the cool mask of earlier that morning, was distressed. “No, I was abrupt and unfeeling and I deserved your anger. I made some serious insinuations in order to gain information and an emotional response from you. It was cruel and unnecessary and I apologize.”

Molly gave him a small, tired smile. “No need, I think we’ve both hurt each other enough. Perhaps it’s best that we part now and don’t look back. Your secrets are safe with me but you already knew that, didn’t you? Goodbye, Mycroft.” Her eyes left his, she turned and got into the car. He closed the door, watching her through the glass.

She looked at him one more time, her eyes serious, and then purposely turned away, settling back into her seat as the car pulled out. He did not look happy and she knew she wasn’t happy but it was time to move on. She would revisit the Mycroft problem in a few weeks when she had some distance.

******

Mycroft stood under the portico and watch the car and Miss Molly Hooper disappear into London traffic. Emma would keep him filled in as to how she was doing and it was for the best that she was going back to her life and he was going back to his. These past weeks had been difficult. He could see now how seductive the lure of friendship could be and how Sherlock had made the choices he had to keep people like Molly Hooper and John Watson in his life. Mycroft had thought it weakness but his time with Molly had changed his mind.

The small pathologist and her domestic tragedy, a situation he would have done anything to avoid in the past, had given him a new perspective. He had enjoyed having tea with her, enjoyed having someone in his home other than paid servants and had even enjoyed her damned cat who had left several kilos of feline fur all over the furniture and his fine wool slacks. He knew now, after letting her go, just how much he would miss her.

He had hoped that she would be rational but he had pushed her too hard and too soon. In his impatience to make things right, he had driven a wedge of mistrust and hurt between them. Had he unconsciously sabotaged their near friendship? If so, he was more perversely self-destructive than he thought. She was gone and unless something untoward was picked up on the CCTV feeds, it was best for everyone.  He was not suited to friendship and she was far too good to be involved with someone like him. The debt was paid and that was that. He thought back to the day it had all started to unravel and shook his head in frustration. He would indeed miss Molly Hooper.

******

Mycroft could tell by looking at Molly’s face that the search of the upper floors had revealed little new information. She had come down less than forty minutes after ascending and she shook her head in the negative when he got up from the side chair where he had sat returning e-mails and making sure that his PA, Anthea, had the office well in hand. He had taken far too much time away from work already and he could tell by the strain in Anthea’s voice that things were reaching critical mass.

Molly looked very tired and slid into the chair next to his, listlessly sipping at the mineral water he had poured out for her earlier. Poor girl, she had so little stamina that even this brief search had been hard on her. However, in spite of her exhaustion, he detected little of the lethargy that had been so worrisome over the past weeks.

“I have called for the car and it should be here in a few minutes. Is there anything you need here before we return to the residence?”

“Toby? I am sure that Mrs. Tolliver has had quite enough of him by now. I don’t know what I was thinking when I asked her to look after him. Her husband has terrible allergies.” Molly looked guilty. “I should have asked about him earlier. I am a selfish person.”

Mycroft rose and reached for his coat. “Not at all, you needed this time to take care of yourself. I met Mrs. Tolliver just yesterday and brought your cat to the residence. He has been below stairs being spoiled rotten by Emma Carlton and the rest of the staff.” He averted his eyes as if he had been caught doing something embarrassing. “I was going to surprise you this evening but the drama here took precedence over a family reunion. I should have told you earlier.”

Molly was touched and looked shyly up at him as he helped her on with her coat. “Thank you, that was very kind. I’ve been thinking about him but it’s all been too much for me. Once again, I am grateful.”

They walked into the foyer and she paused once more and looked at the photo of her and John in Italy. The afternoon light was quickly fading and it would soon be dark. “It’s not over is it? You know something you are not telling me.”  She cut a quick glance at him as she tucked her scarf into her coat.

Mycroft stood at her side, their shoulders almost brushing. He met her eyes in the antique mirror. “No, it is not over but now is not the time to discuss it. I have my people working on it and should know more by morning. We need to get you back to the residence as I am afraid I have been quite demanding this afternoon and know you are tired.”

“I am tired. Tired of being sick and tired of being sad.” She picked up her keys, picked up her purse and after hesitating a moment, plucked her bright yellow umbrella from the stand. “Thank you, Mycroft. I know this has been difficult for you but I appreciate everything you’ve done. I never thought I would ever say this this but I am glad you came for me. I thought my life was over and you have given me another chance to get it right.  I will never be able to thank you enough.”

Mycroft looked down at the small woman, smiled gently at her, inclined his head and offered his arm. She smiled back, hesitated for just a moment, and then tucked her arm into his. The light was fading quickly and they both stood for a moment on the stoop, watching a whirlwind of fallen leaves swirl down the street. Tomorrow would bring more questions but for now they had negotiated a delicate equilibrium. Together, they went down the stairs to the waiting car.

******

Molly had taken leave of Mycroft as soon as they reached the residence and went directly to bed. She had slept dreamlessly and woke feeling better than she had in months. She had risen early, looking out her window at a perfect fall day and dressing before settling back into her bed with a book. Mrs. Carlton knocked on her door several hours later, bringing in coffee on a tray and accompanied by an impatient orange feline.

Toby leapt up on the bed, purring and butting her with his head. Molly gathered him into her arms and buried her face in his warm fur. It felt so good to hold another living thing.

Mrs. Carlton smiled as she stood in the door before coming in and setting the tray at Molly’s bedside. “It’s so nice to have an animal in the house. Mr. Mycroft isn’t fond of animals though he once was when he was young. He and Mr. Sherlock had a lovely dog when they were growing up but it came to a bad end and that was that. Pity as I think he would enjoy having a pet in spite of himself.” She shook her head, poured a cup and handed it to Molly. “You are looking much better. Are you hungry?  Mr. Mycroft is having his tea and has asked me if you would care to join him for breakfast.”

Molly sipped her coffee and nodded in the affirmative. “I think I will as I actually feel hungry this morning.” She looked down at the cup in her hand, then lifted it to her nose and took a deep whiff. “This coffee smells and tastes amazing.”

Mrs. Carlton smiled to herself. The wee lass was indeed starting to feel better. It was the same coffee she had been bringing upstairs for at least a week. “Mr. Mycroft loves this blend and it is freshly ground every morning. He starts the day with several strong cups and then switches to tea. I am glad that you like it. I am more of a tea person myself but this blend is excellent and even I take a cup now and then.” She rose to leave. “Shall I tell Mr. Mycroft you will be down soon? He is in the library.”

“Please do. I will head down in just a few minutes.” Molly shifted off the bed and Toby leapt down after her. Mrs. Carlton gave her a brief nod and left.

Molly walked to the window, drew back the ivory sheer and looked down at the garden. The rust and yellow leaves of the trees were almost gone but the brilliant sun and blue sky made the fall colors pop after so many grey days of drizzle and fog. She raised the sash and a soft breeze rich with the scent of earth and fallen leaves gently lifted the sheers and caressed her face. She drew a huge breath, relishing the fact she could breathe without coughing and that her favorite season of the year was at hand.

Her mouth turned down slightly when she thought of John and the lonely months ahead. Missing him was a deep ache but she no longer felt the pull of the black desperation. She knew she would always miss him but was now sure at some time in the not too distant future she would be able to look back at the time they shared and feel joy and not pain. She fingered the delicate symbol at the base of her throat. There would be hard days ahead and she would need help but she had turned the first corner. Mycroft had given her another shot at life and she fully intended to make the most of things.

She took one last look out at the beautiful autumn sky, lowered the sash and smiled to herself. She had misjudged Mycroft Holmes. He no longer intimidated her though she was sure she hadn’t seen the last of his evil twin. He played a role which required him to be cool, controlled and in command and it had been eye opening to her how gentle and kind he could be in private. He had treated her well, withheld his judgement and shown her more compassion than Sherlock ever had. He might still be a bastard but he was her bastard now and she would do her best by him if he would let her.

******

Mycroft sipped his tea and studied a series of photos his people had brought him this morning. He believed he knew the identity of at least one of the men responsible for the break in at Molly Hooper’s residence. However, there was no proof that this man had broken in and since there was no CCTV footage to fall back on, they had nothing to link him to the intrusion. He had been at the property and been seen along with his companion by Mrs. Tolliver but that evidence was circumstantial at best. They could have been checking on Molly just he had but his instincts told him this was probably not the case.

The photos were one thing but the other evidence they had found after analyzing swabs of the foyer floor were far more concerning. He would have to question her carefully as if he in any way implicated the late John Smith, she would be certain to shut him down. At this point, all potential suspects were fair game and if he had not gotten to know and trust Molly over the past weeks, she would have been on the list of suspects as well. Not for the break in, of course, but for the activity that may have motivated the break in.

All they could do now was watch and wait and this time there were working cameras both outside and inside the townhouse. He was sure Molly would not be pleased but he had stressed to his men that the interior cameras cover the entries, the hallways, the ground floor rooms, the secret room - he could not bring himself to call it a “hidey hole” - and the stairs. There were no cameras in Molly’s bedroom suite or the bathrooms even though he had thought long and hard about it before relenting. Miss Hooper was no longer a stranger to him and though they were not friends, he had not felt comfortable invading her most private of places. Probably a critical error, he thought grimly. He hoped that he would not live to regret it but she was no longer Miss Hooper to him. She was Molly and he could not go back to treating her like an asset or liability.

He had just poured himself his third cup of tea when he heard footsteps. He turned, saw Molly and rose to his feet. She was still pale and far too thin but her eyes were clear and she was moving with far more purpose than he had seen in weeks. She was followed closely by her cat who appeared to be loath to let her out of his sight.

“Good morning, thank you for joining me.” He pulled out a chair for her and after he made sure she was settled across the table from him, he sat down as well. No sooner had he settled into his chair, Toby padded up to him and sat at his feet. He looked down at the feline as if daring him but it was too late and Toby leapt up into his lap. He lifted his eyes to the coffered ceiling and sighed. “I have no idea why this infernal animal likes me so much. He has the entire household staff to pet and coo over him and yet he insists of seeking me out. Irritating.” He gently but firmly set Toby on the carpeted floor but not before he had given him a surreptitious stroke. Good lord, even the cat had gotten under his skin.

Molly bent her head to hide her smile as she caught the brief but gentle caress. Mycroft might be able to fool most people but after two weeks of living in the same house she had picked up a bit on parts of his personality he kept well hidden from the world at large.  He was not as impervious to the weaknesses of his human heart as he seemed.

“He just likes you, that’s all. He likes Sherlock too though he seldom if ever jumped up into his lap. Or, he might really dislike you and is attempting to impress you with his innate superiority and the quality and quantity of fur that he leaves behind. Marking you as his or something like that.”

Mycroft cocked a skeptical eyebrow and brought the conversation back to the business at hand. “We should eat and then go over a few things. My people have come up with some information I would like to share with you.” He poured for her, added a dash of milk and just the right amount of sugar and handed her the cup.

Molly laughed lightly as she accepted the cup. “It seems that you have thoroughly deduced the way I like my tea. I don’t know if I should be concerned about you deducing me further or not. I may be hiding terrible things behind this mild mannered façade.”

Mycroft’s face tightened and though the change in his visage was subtle it immediately made her uneasy. “Mycroft, I was just teasing. You know I have nothing to hide.”

He cut a quick glance at her but did not answer as Mrs. Carlton entered carrying a breakfast tray. He rose, took the tray and set it on the small table between them. “Thank you, Emma. Would you please close the door on your way out? Thank you.”

He turned back to Molly and wished he could erase the worry on her face. “As I said earlier, let’s eat and then go over the data we have thus far.”

“No, let’s go over the data first. I have my tea and I will be just fine.” A line of worry and determination creased her forehead and her voice cooled along with the light in her eyes.

 Mycroft sighed. So much for trying to be subtle. He needed to get the conversation under control.  “I am sorry, Molly. I meant nothing untoward but there may be another, far more dangerous, aspect of this puzzle that has just come to light. Please indulge me.”

Molly nodded, sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest in a defensive poster. So much for trust and compassion. “All right, please enlighten me.”

“Your very observant neighbor, Mrs. Tolliver, saw two men knocking on your door.” Mycroft pulled a photo from the file and handed it to Molly. “She described them in detail and I believe that this one of the men. Do you know him?”

Molly looked at the photo in surprise. “That’s Rufus, Rufus Gibson, John’s business partner.”

“As I thought. According to Mrs. Tolliver he came to your door several times, both alone and with another man that is yet to be identified.” Mycroft got up and started to slowly pace the room. “This in itself is not concerning as he may have been simply checking on your welfare. He will be questioned in the very near future. However, there is something else which has been discovered that may provide a motive for the break in.”

Mycroft stopped his pacing and looked directly at Molly. The next few questions were going to be difficult at best.

“There were traces of heroin and fentanyl found in the dust in your foyer. I am not casting aspersions but must ask the question. Did your husband have a drug problem?”

Molly’s eyes widened in shock and her hand went to the necklace at her throat. “No, John smoked a bit of marijuana when he was at uni but he said it made him paranoid and he never tried it again afterwards. He liked to drink wine but only in moderation and I would have known if he had been using. I have seen too many dead addicts at Bart’s to miss the signs.” She shook her head and looked at him accusingly. “Not possible, just not possible.”

“I suspect that there were drugs being shipped to your townhouse in the packing crates along with the art. I cannot say at this time whether John knew or not. Just because I have nothing on him in my files does not mean anything. I know this is difficult for you but you have to your mind open to all possibilities.”

Molly stood, nearly upsetting her tea. She was angry and hurt and she glared at Mycroft. “All possibilities, all possibilities…So, you think John was a drug smuggler? And wait, are you sure I knew nothing? Would you like to examine my arms, Mr. Holmes? How about the inside of my thighs? Is that why you looked at me so oddly a few minutes ago?” She pulled up her sleeves and showed him the delicate skin of her inner arms, traced by faint blue veins. “See any track marks? No, of course not and I never saw any on John either.”

She walked quickly towards the door, changed her mind and walked directly back to Mycroft, invading his personal space. “How dare you? I am grateful for all you have done for me but you are dead wrong. If traces of drugs were found in my foyer, neither John nor I had anything to do with it. I work in a hospital, Mycroft, and I am not a stupid woman. It would be nothing for me to find a way to obtain drugs should I so desire.” She looked at him and her eyes were pained. “I think it’s time for me to go home.”

Mycroft closed the small distance between them and took her by the arm. She stiffen. He looked down into her face and saw hurt and anger, just what he had tried to avoid. “Molly, please listen to me. Just because the last crate is gone doesn’t mean that whoever is responsible has gotten what they wanted and will move on. They may be back and I need you to know a few things before I let you go.” She tried to pull away but his grasp was too strong. “Please, Molly?”

“Fine.” She spat the word at him but stopped struggling. He let her go and gestured her back to the table. Sitting down he indicated she should do the same. He produced a sleek laptop from the end of the table and opened it making sure he had her full attention. This was not going to be pleasant either.

He keyed in a password and the screen lit up showing a view of Molly’s front door. He then pressed one key after another and she watched in vague horror as views of almost every room in her house as well as several of the front and back popped up on the screen.

Mycroft turned away from the images on the screen and faced her. “You are aware I replaced your locks but I also felt it necessary to wire the townhouse with CCTV cameras. If I had thought you had anything to do with the drug residue on your floor, I would not be showing this to you now.” He paused and his eyes were steely. “I don’t think this is over and I want, I need, you to be safe.”

Molly struggled to keep her emotions in check. She was furious, disappointed and wanted desperately for this conversation to be over. “Well, at least you skipped our bedroom and the loo.  I suppose I should be grateful but somehow I’m not.”

She rose and took a deep breath. Her face was in control but her pain was evident in the set of her shoulders. “I wish you luck with your investigation and I thank you again for that night on the river. I will tolerate the cameras but I do not want to see you again. Do not come to my house and do not come to my office. You know my number and you know my email.  If you have something to say to me, use those methods.”

“Molly, please…” Mycroft reached out a hand to her and it all came back to her. His face at the river, the raw emotion of his voice, the cold wind, the rushing river and the darkness that had almost claimed her. She remembered how he had pulled her off the wall and held her safely wrapped in his coat. She remembered his soft voice in her ear and falling asleep in the circle of his arms. Her heart lurched with disappointment. He was not the man she thought and she had been a fool to believe that he could be. He was Mycroft Holmes and he might care in his own way but it was not enough for her. Her face crumpled, she ran from him and did not look back.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished at long last. Here's a big thank you to all who have waited so patiently for so long.   
> Please note that I am going to update the the character list and tags as soon I finish posting the last chapters. Should you have sensitivities regarding drug use or overdose please be warned that both are included in the next chapters.

Chapter 9

Molly was reading in the drawing room, the late afternoon light streaming through the shutters, casting barred shadows across the deep carpet. She was tired and was just about to put her book down when there was an insistent knocking on the front door. Odd, she thought, she wasn’t expecting anyone.

She walked out to the foyer and opened the door and what she saw confused and puzzled her. It was John and he was dressed in a hospital gown and little else. He smiled at her. “Hello pet, why did you change the locks?”

She blinked at his words but before she could respond he went on, a silly and yet somehow crafty look on his face. “I had to come back for my clothes. The idiot nurses at critical care cut mine away and I have nothing to wear.” He paused and cocked his head, giving her a crooked grin. “This get up, while simply elegant in its way, will just not do.”

Molly felt faint. “You’re dead, John. I saw your body. It’s just not possible you’re here.” She leaned against the jam and put a hand to her forehead.

John laughed, putting his hands behind his back as he rocked back and forth on his heels. His eyes glittered oddly and his voice had become sing-song. “Oh that, I can’t believe you fell for that. You know me, Molly, I can fool anyone, can’t I, love? I tricked them, you see. I tricked all of them and I tricked you too in more ways than one. But now I’m back and I want my clothes.” He looked slightly betrayed. “You didn’t give them away did you? You should have known I was just foxing you. So, where are my clothes?”

“John, you’re dead. You don’t need your clothes.” Molly backed away and tried to shut the door but he was too quick and pushed a grasping hand through the crack just inches from her face. Her breath grew quick and she started to panic as she pushed the door even harder. Her heart lurched as she felt and heard the snap of his wrist bones giving way.

His voice rose in a dire shriek and as he pulled his dangling hand out of the door and it slammed shut. “I…AM…NOT…DEAD! WHERE ARE MY CLOTHES?”

******

Molly woke with a start, sitting up so suddenly her book crashed to the floor. Her heart was pounding and she was slightly disoriented. It had been a dream, just another damned dream. Mycroft had planted doubt in her mind and it was manifesting itself through her subconscious. She had to stop thinking about it. John was not a drug dealer and that was that. He had loved her and had never lied to her.

She got up and stretched and then bent to pick up her book. She had just put it down on the side table next to her now cold tea when there was knocking on the front door. She startled and then told herself in no uncertain terms that it was not John back from the dead and wanting his clothes back. How much more absurd and morbid could her imagination get? With a small huff of exasperation at her nerves, she walked out into the foyer, waving off Emma at the other end of the hall.

“I’ll get it, Emma. I think you need to look after those apricot scones. They smell divine and I am counting on you not to burn them.” She smiled, turned and walked across the foyer.

She was reaching for the latch when she heard a familiar voice in her head. “I went to the trouble and expense to install a suitable Victorian door viewer and you fail to use it…” She paused and rolled her eyes. Her inner voice had recently taken on the dry and irritatingly correct voice of Mycroft Holmes especially when she was about to do something contrary to security protocols.

Emma had gone over these protocols with her soon after they had moved back to the townhouse. Although couched in her somewhat softened, feminine tones, Molly could detect the precise influence of Mycroft behind her words. Double lock the door each night. Set the alarms when leaving the house. Look both ways before shutting the door and leaving the safety of the stoop. Draw the shades at dusk. Always use the door viewer.

“Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah! Shut up mother…” Molly muttered as she rose on her toes and peaked through the viewer.

A delivery man waited impatiently on the stoop, mopping his brow with a bright handkerchief and looking generally looking aggrieved at life. Her inner Mycroft, satisfied that there was not a thug with a gun on her stoop, allowed her to open her door.

“Oi, Missus, I have a crate for a Mr. John Smith. Is he in?” The man craned his neck as if the man of the house was going to materialize behind Molly.

Her almost playful mood was swept away and she was instantly alert. “No, I am sorry but my husband isn’t here. May I signed for the delivery?” She quickly scanned the street for possible trouble. All clear as far as she could see.

“Sure, Missus, just need to see your particulars, if you know what I mean.” He grinned wolfishly at her.

Molly looked at him askance but winced inwardly at his inept flirtation. Sensing her mood, the delivery man snapped back into business mode.

He squinted at her doubtfully, looked long at his clipboard for a non-existent answer and then nodded. “A bit irregular but we’ll make an exception for you Missus.” He held out a pen and handed her the board. Taking the pen, she signed with a flourish.

“All right then, it’s a fair heavy crate and if you hold the door, I’ll have it up here in a jiff. Want it in the foyer?” He looked at Molly and she nodded.

She watched the man walk down the stairs and activate the lift gate on the back of his truck. He disappeared for a moment and soon was trundling a large flat crate up the curb and across the pavement. He efficiently pivoted his hand truck and soon the crate as safely deposited in the foyer.

Molly stared at the crate, her mind racing. Why now?  Why so long after John’s death?  Suddenly she felt very tired. The last thing she wanted to deal with was a new wrinkle in her case and big brother nosing into her business again.

She was brought back from her wool gathering by a not so discreet cough. “OK, Missus, must dash.” He looked expectantly at her and she stared stupidly back. What did he want?  Good lord, a tip. Where was her purse?

“Stay here, I will be back in a moment.” She turned quickly and crossed the chair she had just vacated. Picking up her orange purse, she pivoted and was back out in the foyer. What she saw made her freeze.

The man was standing at the demilune, the photo of her and John in his hand. He smiled but there was no sign of the simple delivery man in his eyes. “Handsome.” He looked up and met her eyes. “Pity he’s not here.”

Molly froze, her purse and the tip forgotten. She stared at him and felt suddenly furious. “Put that down and get out.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Missus.” Grinning, he took a step towards her, the photo still in his hand, when the door to the kitchen crashed open.

Emma Carlton stood in the kitchen doorway. Her face was hard and her eyes sparked, belying the streak of flour across her nose and her chintz apron.

“Step away from her. Now.” Her voice was cold and her stance never wavered. “Molly, come to me.”

The sight of Emma brought Molly out of her paralysis. She quickly retreated and took her place at Emma’s side, her hands shaking and her face pale.

“Well, well…Not so alone after all. I guess it’s time for me to be going.” Baring his teeth in a mirthless grin and his eyes still locked with Molly’s, he held out the photograph at arm’s length and deliberately dropped it; the glass shattering as it struck the marble floor. Molly flinched, her eyes slid away from his and she seemed to fold into herself.

Emma took another step forward, placing herself between the man and Molly. “Get the hell out. Now.”

“Whatever you say, Missus.” He turned, his shoes crunching as he stepped through the broken glass on the foyer floor. “You two have a good day now.”  He opened the door and was gone.

There was a moment of silence in the foyer as the women held their breath and listened to the footsteps going down the front steps. Molly stumbled forward and knelt on the cold marble, ignoring the broken glass that pierced her knees. She reached out for the photo of her and John. She picked it up and a low moan broke from her throat. The photo had been slashed – a jagged scar had cut through the paper and ran across her face and across John’s neck.

“God, oh god, why?” The question hung in the air as Molly slipped into a sitting position on the floor, blood from knees leaving a red smear across the white and grey marble. “John, why did you have to leave me? What did I do to deserve this? ”

Emma tentatively approached Molly, bent and gently touched her shoulder. “Molly, come on love. Let me help you up and we’ll go in the kitchen, clean you up and have some tea.  Then you can have a nice lay down and I’ll clean up this mess.  What do you say to that idea?”

Molly looked up into Emma’s concerned face and started to cry in great heaving gasps. Emma knelt beside her and took her into her arms. “There now, my brave girl, you just get it all out. Just let it go. Everything will be all right.” Molly buried her face into Emma’s chest and Emma’s arms tightened around her. “No one can hurt you now. I’m here, I’m here” She rocked Molly gently, all the while looking up at the hidden CCTV camera with a grim eyes. “It was just a horrible little man trying to take advantage. He’s gone and it’s over now.”  Emma nodded once at the camera and very carefully helped Molly to her feet and, with her arm still around the young woman, they slowly made their way into the kitchen, the crate in the foyer forgotten.

******

Mycroft sighed as he walked the short distance between his government apartment and the Italian consulate. A nasty little Yorkshireman with family ties in Rome and a penchant for blackmail had slipped through the net of M16 in London and bolted to Italy. A European Arrest Warrant had been issued by the UK and was being processed by the Italian government but the little sod had ingratiated himself with a family branch of the local Mafia and the extradition process had been delayed twice. Certain parties in London had been anxious to get the bastard back in the home country and so he had been dispatched to jolly up the locals or threaten them with extreme prejudice if they did not cooperate and speed things up.

He loved Italy. The art, the food, the countryside. Just as he loved the country, so pleasant when ensconced in a rural villa with lemon trees in the garden, a fine wine cellar and cool dim rooms perfect for contemplation, he hated being sent to the city for work. Rome was dirty, noisy and filled with government sycophants anxious for bribes with none of the subtleties he admired in the Italian intelligentsia. Pity the Medici line had mostly died out. Vicious and plotting but clever, so clever. And, unfortunately extinct, leaving him to deal with the petty tyrants of contemporary urban Rome.

He had just reached the consulate when two things happened almost at once. His mobile buzzed in his pocket and as he reached for it, a flock of pigeons suddenly exploded from where they had been foraging in the street. Startled, he dropped the mobile and as he bent to retrieve it, the street rippled and rose to meet him. The stone buildings cracked under stress and small chunks of cornices and a cascade of dust came raining down from above. There was a series of crashes and thumps all underscored by a low grinding sound. As the dust settled, there was a short interlude of silence followed by a cacophony of sirens, car horns and shouting.

Small earthquake, nothing too serious but enough to stir things up in the capitol. He glanced at his phone and though its armor had saved its sleek glass screen, there was no signal. He grimaced in irritation, both at the fine dust that had settled on his suit and the failure of the government fiber optic system. Nothing should knock him off the air but off the air he was. Damn and blast but he was sure he could check his messages once inside the consulate.  Little did he know that it would be 36 hours before any email or telephone services would be restored.  A high count fiber cable had been severed high in the Apennines and through an unfortunate cascade of exponentially expanding misadventures, the redundant route had also been severed and several telecomm huts had been destroyed by rock slides. All of southern Italy went down and the virtual life of Mycroft Holmes and many million Italians went dark.

Muttering to himself and brushing the fine dust from his jacket, Mycroft delicately replaced his now useless mobile in his pocket and gingerly made his way through the debris on the sidewalk, slipping silently into the dark consulate. Unknown to him a drama was playing out back in London and it would be over a day before he received the multiple urgent emails, mobile messages, the video stream from Molly’s townhouse and finally the last, desperate emergency signal from Emma Carlton as he de-planed at Heathrow.

******

Molly was nervous as she got ready for work but had mostly recovered from her unpleasant caller of the day before. Emma had cleaned the cut on her knee, made her a hot toddy, helped her deal with the crate and sent her off to bed. Toby followed her upstairs, staying close, leaping up on the bed and curling up next to her head. She fell asleep stroking his soft fur and listening to his quiet purr. Although she woke several times in the night, eyes wide and ears straining for any sound, the house was quiet and each time she fell back into a fitful sleep.

Passing through the quiet foyer on the way to the kitchen, there was no sign of broken glass though the photo of her and John was missing from the demilune. She and Emma had fetched a hand cart last night from the storage shed in the garden and awkwardly rolled the large shipping crate into the drawing room and then slid it into the hidey hole to await Mycroft’s return. Molly had alternated between a dim curiosity and grim unease as she touched the rough surfaces of the crate. Did it contain something other than watercolors? Exhausted, she decided that she didn’t care, and carefully swung the hidden door closed with relief. Mycroft could deal with it upon his return.  

Grabbing an apricot scone from a covered bowl on the kitchen counter and nodding to Emma, busy on her laptop, Molly spoke. “I may be late tonight. We’ve had another spate of drug related deaths and I will have a busy day between the post mortems and paperwork.”

Emma nodded, blowing out an exasperated breath as she looked in frustration at the laptop sitting on the small tea table in the box bay overlooking the back garden. “Mr. Mycroft is not responding and his office thinks it is because of the earthquake in Rome yesterday. He is due back tonight so they have not mobilized a staffer with a satellite phone.” She paused, shaking her head. “I am sure Mr. Mycroft will not be pleased. He hates being incommunicado and heads will roll upon his return. False economy indeed…”

Emma got up, crossed the kitchen and went to the refrigerator. “Not much I can do about budget cuts and inherent stupidity in government employees but I can make sure you eat properly today.” She reached in and retrieved a small insulated bag. “Your favorite, cucumber sesame salad and some leftover Pad Thai.  Now all you have to do is remember to wash your hands and remember to eat.  May I count on you to do so?” Emma cocked one eyebrow and offered Molly a wry smile.

Molly reached out and took the bag. “Thank you, Emma, you take such good care of me.” Molly turned to go but then stopped, turned and spontaneously hugged a surprised Emma Carlton. “Never doubt that I appreciate everything you have done for me since we left the residence. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you here.” Molly eyes brimmed as she held the older woman and Emma responded with yet another hug.

“No nonsense now. I’ve loved looking after you and taking a break from managing Mr. Mycroft. I’ll stay as long as you need me, my girl.” She broke from the hug still holding Molly by the shoulders and looked into her face. “Off to work you go and no more tears. Mr. Mycroft will be back soon and he’ll get to the bottom of things, you’ll see.  Now, if only he would pick up his damned mobile.”

Molly laughed and planted a gentle kiss on Emma’s cheek. “Managing Mr. Mycroft… I love it even though I’m sure he doesn’t. See you tonight, Emma.” Molly turned and was out the door.

Emma looked after her and her face creased with worry. She did not like having that crate in the house and she liked being cut off from Mr. Mycroft even less. She had reported to his office but Anthea was a frustrated as Emma. She had things under control here but she was uneasy. It might be nothing, but between yesterday’s delivery and the damnable Italian earthquake, she had a very bad feeling.

Shaking her head and pouring herself another cup of tea, Emma sat down at her laptop and again sent a yet another message out into the void. She hoped against hope she was wrong.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Molly was uneasy. Her morning at the office had done nothing to ease the feeling though she had thrown herself at three post mortems and a huge stack of paperwork. Since that unfortunate young man murdered last year, there had been a steady stream of drug related deaths that crossed her steel table. They had been mostly young but otherwise they had all been from different backgrounds and social classes. Nothing linked them together but the cause of their death; drug overdose. She just hoped that whatever the source of this scourge that it had not flowed from her townhouse foyer.

It was depressing to see so many young people dead from drug abuse. She had been surprised at the amount of heroin being used while she was in Uni, then appalled at the rise in prescription opioid abuse and then horrified at the resurgence of heroin now often cut with deadly fentanyl. Why did young people feel the need to anesthetize themselves to the point of death? She had watched Sherlock abuse drugs for years and though she understood from a scientific and professional perspective, she hated it every time he showed up at her flat strung out and needing help.

He had told her stories on such nights. Stories of drug fueled insanity and Mycroft dragging him out of crack houses and back alley drug dens, half dead or raving. She and Sherlock - his beautiful eyes dimmed and unfocused, body shrinking into the depths of his great coat with her huddled close by in a robe and nightgown - made quite the odd couple. She fixed cup after cup of hot, strong tea for them, and though she could ill afford the lack of sleep, she stayed awake until he either left or had safely nodded off on her couch. Even then, she was up every twenty minutes to make sure that he was only sleeping and still breathing. She was always furious afterwards, vowing not to join in the dance of codependency, but she could never bring herself to turn him away. She had even laid in a small stock of naloxone just in case of an overdose which she had for some reason moved, along with the rest of her things, into the townhouse after her marriage.

She sipped her tepid tea and looked out at the grey skies and wet streets. Snow was predicted tonight. She loved the first snow of winter but knew she would find little joy in it this year. Mycroft must have gone through hell with Sherlock and yet he too could not break out of the repetitive circle of lecture, enable and rescue. She had thought of Mycroft this morning as she closed up the body of a whip thin, dark haired young man, skin grey and scarred with old track marks and blown veins. How many times had he saved Sherlock and how many times had Sherlock thanked him with scorn and derision?

The events of the morning had put her on her guard and punctured the fragile shell of normalcy she had built up around herself since her return home. She felt vulnerable and weak while a simmering anger roiled underneath. She was angry at Mycroft for his insinuations, she was angry at John for dying and most of all, she was angry at herself for her weakness and attempted suicide. What made her any better than these poor wretches that had ended their lives with a needle filled with forgetfulness in some back alley? She hadn’t tried to end it with drugs but had she not been pulled off that wall by Mycroft, she would be just as dead. Stupid, just stupid.

She shook herself out of her self-condemnation, rose and rinsed her tea cup in the sink. She would put on some music, get back to her reports and with luck, she would feel better in a few hours. She had changed her mind and wanted to examine the crate and its contents. She did not want to wait for Mycroft to return. It was the last shipment of art that John had ordered and it had finally struck her that with this shipment, he was well and truly gone. There would never be another mutual uncrating of glorious art, there would never be another night wrapped in each other’s arms on the rooftop deck and no matter how real her dreams, John was never coming back. She was also anxious to prove to Mycroft that it wasn’t John who had been the conduit for this poison.  

Speaking of stupid, why was she so concerned about what Mycroft thought? Though he had helped her and been almost kind, he was still who he had always been and that would never change. Still, she had missed him after their falling out. There was a reason she had addressed her last thoughts to him that night she went to the river though she could not have articulated it at the time.

She knew he would handle her affairs respectfully and exactly as she requested. She knew he would pass her goodbye on to Sherlock and would do his best to explain what had happened to compel her to end her own life. She knew he would help, just as sure as she knew his eyes were a stormy grey blue, he carried an umbrella, always had a handkerchief and that he loved his little brother with ferocity beyond reason.

He helped her because that is what he did, he was a fixer of broken things and broken situations. Whether that was because of a compulsive urge to set things right, an attempt to impose a rigid control over the bewildering chaos of life or a deep seated and well-hidden compassion, she didn’t know. And, mostly in spite of herself, she liked him. She liked him as she liked Sherlock. They were both bastards but she admired their intellect, their tenacity, their struggle with their own humanity and their commitment to make the world a better place. As flawed and troubled as they were, they were both good men.

Enough, she thought to herself as she took one last look out her office window at the rapidly fading afternoon light. Time to get back to work as her shift would be over in less than an hour. Wool gathering over Mycroft was not helping her mood. If anything, her feelings towards him confused and irritated her. Missing him made it difficult for her. She wasn’t ready to feel anything again and it was far easier to assign him a specific niche, stay angry and keep him at arm’s length. He would not return her feelings anyway. Just like Sherlock, he was all intellect and only showed his feelings in moments of exceptional stress. Neither man was anything like John and perhaps that was for the best. John had been easy to love and he had been like her; optimistic, caring and open. No, neither of the Holmes brothers could give her what she needed in spite of how she felt about them.

Her reverie over the brothers Holmes done, she once more sat down and focused on her report. The dead needed a voice and she had work to do.

******

Mycroft was furious as he scrolled through the emails from Emma Carlton one more time. He looked out the small window and saw nothing but a thick layer of clouds. He was still an hour out from Heathrow though his face betrayed nothing, he felt sick. Emma was both M16 trained and armed and would have only contacted him if the situation was serious. He had seen the CCTV footage on his laptop just prior the breaking off talks with the Italian cretins and boarding a private Lear jet back to London.  The Italians had not been pleased but one look at Mycroft’s face rigid with anger after mobile service had been restored, was enough to make them back out of the room, their hope of lucrative bribes forgotten.

His fury knew no bounds as he watched the crate delivered and the little wretch of a lorry driver frighten Molly. Although he had watched the footage several times and ran a facial recognition scan of the driver, nothing had come up to link the bastard to any type of crime. No matter, he had a bad feeling and that crate had to be removed from the townhouse as soon as possible. He had talked to Emma within two hours after takeoff from Rome and she had concurred.

“I don’t like it, Mr. Mycroft, I don’t like it all. It could have been a coincidence that the driver tried to frighten Molly but I don’t know.” She paused and looked at her watch. “She should be back from work any minute now. I am prepared and as soon as she gets home, we will secure the house and wait for you. The crate is hidden but it would be best that it be removed as soon as possible. I can’t help but think that whoever is behind the drug shipments will want to retrieve it.”

“Do I need to mobilize a team? If you think the situation is that serious perhaps it would be best.” Mycroft’s forehead creased as he watched the video loop of the driver’s leering face and the blood from Molly’s knees streaking the marble floor of the foyer. This little bastard would be losing more than his job before I am through with him, thought Mycroft as he waited for Emma to answer.

“No, I don’t think they would act so soon. The crate has only been here a short time and I have things in hand. Molly will be here any moment and I am armed.” Emma’s voice was confident and made Mycroft, stuck at thirty thousand feet for at least another forty minutes, feel much better.

 “Got it, lock things down as soon as Molly arrives. I am counting on you, Emma.” He waited for a long moment before he continued, his voice betraying his emotions. “Is she alright? Did you check on her at work?”

Emma smiled thinly in spite of herself. “She is going to be fine, Mr. Mycroft. She was shocked and upset but she bucked right up after some sleep. She was pale and on edge this morning but not past what one might expect after all she has been through. I had a staffer watch her office today and he saw nothing. I know you have been worried about her but she is stronger than you think.”

Mycroft relaxed slightly. Emma would know more than anyone what Molly was feeling. She had weathered a storm of her own and though wounded had eventually recovered. If Emma thought Molly would be fine, Mycroft had every confidence she would be.

“Thank, you Emma.” He looked at his watch. “I should be on the ground soon and will come straight there. Please inform Molly.”

“I will, Mr. Mycroft. It is a great relief to be back in touch. See you soon.” Emma terminated the call and did a quick walk through of the lower floor. All doors secured and the alarms engaged. Now all she needed was Molly home and safe.  She double checked the Glock in her apron pocket; safety on with a full clip. Mr. Mycroft would sort all this out but in the meantime, no one would get past Emma Carlton.

******

Molly was tired after a long day at the morgue but satisfied that she had caught up with her paper work and was no longer behind after her long sick leave. She had taken the tube back to her neighborhood and was now only half a block from the townhouse. It was almost dark and the street lights came on just as she reached the last corner. As if on cue, standing underneath the light and looking to make sure her way home was clear, it started to snow. The white flakes swirled in the light breeze and Molly tucked in her scarf against the cold as she lifted her face to the winter sky.

She thought of John and another night, not so long ago, when they shared the joy of a first snow and their first Christmas together. It was a lovely memory and she smiled in spite of her exhaustion. Not everything was lost and suddenly she felt better than she had in weeks. Still smiling, she set off towards the townhouse.

She was almost to her stairs when she heard a voice. “Molly, Molly…wait up.” She turned and watched Rufus Gibson run across the street. She was instantly alert. What did Rufus want?

Rufus, as always looking slightly rumpled, joined her under a street light. “I got a notice today at the shop that a crate had been delivered. I have my van parked across from the townhouse and wanted to pick it up. According to the store records, there are several good oil portraits and some landscapes from the Isle of Wight region.” Rufus paused, noticing her nervousness. “Is that alright, Molly? The stock at the store is pretty thin and business has really dropped off since John’s passing.  I really need those works. I hope you don’t mind.”

Molly narrowed her eyes and peered up at Rufus through the snow. He had his hands jammed deep in his pockets and looked cold. Otherwise, he seemed just like Rufus; scattered and friendly. Could he be hiding something?

“I’m sorry, Rufus, but you can’t have it tonight. There was a break in at the townhouse a few weeks back and I am still trying to sort through John’s records. I should be done next week and will call you to pick up the crate. John had made some personal purchases that were included in the last few shipments and I want to make sure there aren’t any in this one. I am sure you understand as these might be the last works John may have purchased for us.”

Rufus’s forehead creased in irritation. “I really need that crate, Molly. You can’t understand how tough it’s been at the shop without John. Please???”

They had reached the foot of her stoop. “I am sorry, Rufus, but you will just have to wait.” She turned to go up the stairs when Rufus grabbed her roughly by the arm and spun her around.  Startled, she clutched her purse to her side and tried to pull away. Rufus glanced quickly to the left and suddenly another man appeared from the shadows. He was small in stature, was dressed in dark clothes with a backpack on his back. He might be small but he had no trouble yanking her roughly up the steps, one arm twisted painfully behind her. A soft voice, ice cold spoke in her ear. “Do be a good girl and no one will get hurt. All we want is the crate and once you give it to us, we will leave you in peace. Give us a hard time and I can’t say what will happen.”

Molly looked into his face and instantly knew he was lying. His silvery grey eyes told her that this man would take what he wanted and then kill both her and Emma without a second thought. She was afraid but her only thought was to warn Emma of the threat about to come in the front door. She slumped slightly and started to beg. “Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t hurt me.”

The short man laughed and loosened his grip on her arm just slightly, easing her pain. Rufus stood nearby looking nervously up and down the street. “Come on, Jim, we need to get this over with. We are too exposed out here and need to get her inside.”

“Calm down, big boy. I have her in hand, don’t I now? Just shut up and watch the professional at work. So Miss Molly, let’s just walk up the steps and get this door open shall we?” Molly complied, hanging her head and looking beaten. She fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking. The key struck the lock but missed. She tried again and it was the wrong key.

“Sorry, so sorry. I’m just nervous that’s all. One more time should get it right.” She tried again with another key and failed again. Looking frantic, she started to try yet another key again when the man wrenched her arm hard and she heard the sharp snap of her humerus bone breaking just one short second before the pain hit. It was instant agony and hurt so badly she wanted to vomit. Grey spots clouded her vision and she thought she might faint, tears of pain streaming down her face.

“Stop fucking around or I will really hurt you. Now fucking focus or I will give you something to really cry about, bitch.” The short man pulled her wounded arm with the gentlest of pressure and her head swam from the pain. He laughed softly as she moaned. “Come on now, Miss Molly, just open this door and the pain will stop.  I promise.”

He smiled at her and she knew then she was going to die. This man would kill her as soon as he had what he wanted. She only hoped that Emma had gotten the message from her deliberate mistakes at the door entrance pad and had enough time to get ready.

Her hand shook as she carefully inserted the key in the lock and turned it. Ready or not, here we come, she thought absurdly through her pain. The door swung inward and glittering fresh went snow swirling into the foyer along with a cold wind.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Emma Carlton knew there was something very wrong. She and Molly had agreed that if an entry had been tried more than once, there was a threat and to prepare. She hesitated for only a moment and pushed the panic button on her mobile before setting it down on the demilune. She could only hope that Mr. Mycroft had landed and was on his way.

She assumed a shooting stance and drew the Glock from her apron. She just hoped Molly was quick enough and clever enough to get out of the way.

******

Mycroft’s jet had just hit the tarmac parting a curtain of light snow when his mobile started pinging. Glancing quickly at the screen, he confirmed that Emma Carlton had hit the panic button on her mobile. He instantly pressed speed dial and listened as the mobile rang and rang and rang.  Something had happened. Something so dire that Emma had activated the last step in a prescribed list of emergency procedures. He disconnected the call and immediately called his office.

Anthea answered, her voice strained. “Teams have been dispatched and they will be there within 15 minutes. What is your location?”

“Heathrow and about to deplane. I have a car waiting and will see the teams at the townhouse. Emma is armed but I don’t know the situation. Exercise extreme caution. I want no innocent fatalities.” The jet now fully stopped, he waited impatiently by the door as the ground crew deployed the steps. He could see the car idling not far away barely visible through the swirling snow.

The door opened and Mycroft, heedless of his own safety, leapt down the short stairs and was at the car in moments. He slid into the back seat and the car launched into the night, his driver Charles already fully apprised of the situation. The London traffic was thick and their pace was painfully slow in spite of their government plates and Charles’ aggressive driving.

His mind racing, he thought of Molly. He should have never let her move back into the townhouse. At the residence, he could have kept her safe. He had not anticipated another crate to arrive so long after John’s death and that was his failure. If anything happened to Molly or Emma he would never forgive himself.

******

Emma’s attention was entirely focused on the front door as it swung inward letting in a skiff of snow. She was at the far end of the foyer and her back was to the kitchen. Molly entered first, her coat and scarf disarranged and her face strained and white. Her eyes met Emma’s and they were bright with fear. A short, pale man had her by her arm and she was in obvious pain. A taller, heavy set man followed and shut the door behind them. Toby, hoping for his evening treat, had sauntered out of the drawing room tail high, taken one quick look at the assemblage and darted up the stairs to safety.

The intruder alarm started to screech and the short man plucked an umbrella from the stand and pushing Molly to one side, he swung the heavy Malacca handle, shattering its glass face. The sound abruptly cut off. “Now what do we have here? The cook that came in from the kitchen?” The small man cackled and again took control of Molly. “That was funny, don’t you think, Miss Molly?”

Emma tensed, both arms extended holding the Glock on the group. “Let her go or I will shoot.”

The small man named Jim laughed and never taking his eyes from Emma’s, twisted Molly’s arm. Molly shrieked in pain, her eyes fluttered shut and she sagged against him, dropping her purse. Emma twitched but held her stance.

“I said let her go or I will shoot.” Emma took careful aim.

“Now missus, let’s not be hasty. We should talk about this before someone gets hurt.” He grinned at her, his silvery eyes merry. “I think Molly agrees, don’t you Molly?” He once again twisted the arm in his grip and Molly moaned, her eyes betraying her pain but the grim set of her mouth telling Emma not to stand down.

Emma winced and her stance faltered for just a second but her focus on the small man never wavered. “I warned you.” she said and she pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was deafening in the small space and Jim, anticipating the shot leapt to the side dragging Molly with him and knocking the Japanese dish on the demilune to the floor where it shattered. Rufus Gibson, with a look of surprise on his fleshy face, drooped to his knees, a neat hole through his chest.

“You shot me. You old bitch, you shot me…” Rufus met her eyes, a look of confusion and betrayal on his face. “You shot me…” His voice trailed off and he slumped sideways onto the marble floor, his face slack. A slow seep of blood spread across his white shirtfront.

The kitchen door burst open and a another man, a large handgun with a silencer in his hand, swung his arm in a violent arc catching Emma Carlton on the side of her head. The blow spun her sideways, she dropped the Glock and the man hit her again, splitting the skin on her forehead and sending her crashing to the floor. The man looked down at her for a moment and then stepped forward and pressed the tip of the silencer to her forehead. He looked at the man holding Molly for instructions. “Should I off her, Jim? She shot Rufus, the old bitch.”

Jim shook his head. “Not now, we need to find the crate. She isn’t going anywhere and you can clean up on our way out. I don’t think we will be alone for much longer. Will we, Miss Molly?”

Molly moaned and her eyes fluttered open. She saw Emma and Rufus on the floor, closed her eyes and moaned again as she leaned against the far wall of the foyer. She was well and truly done for now and only hoped that Emma had gotten off a warning to Mycroft in time.

“Now Miss Molly, you don’t want Evan to shoot your friend in the head do you?  Not after she did such a nice job of getting rid of old Rufus for us. That would be a terrible shame. What do you think Ev?  Will Miss Molly give us the crate or should you start your cleanup early?” Evan once more pressed the silencer to Emma’s head and looked at Molly, waiting.

“Please don’t, please. I will give you the crate, just leave her alone.” Evan looked at Jim, the small man nodded and Evan stepped away from Emma.

Jim jerked his chin towards Rufus and met Evan’s eyes. Evan smiled slowly, crossed the foyer and without a moments’ hesitation, he pressed the gun to the side of Rufus’s head and pulled the trigger. The big man’s body jerked and then was still, blood oozing from his shattered skull.

Molly’s blood ran cold and a strange clarity descended upon her mind. If she didn’t do something, they were dead. She looked at Jim with dread in her eyes.

“Good choice, Miss Molly. Ev, you stand watch out here and make sure we aren’t disturbed.” He grabbed Molly by her good arm. “Lead away, Miss Molly. I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

Molly jerked her head towards the drawing room and together, she and Jim left the carnage in the foyer behind. Her arm in agony and frantically worried about Emma, Molly fought to maintain self-control and think through her pain. Only thirty feet to come up with a plan. She walked up to the bookcase, reached up and sprang the secret lever. Now or never, Miss Molly. Now or never.

******

Mycroft’s car was within a quarter mile of Molly’s townhouse and his back up team was close behind. They would deploy upon arrival to their pre-determined locations. Their first task would be situation analysis and their second would be to attempt to neutralize any threat prior to entering.

The car pulled up across the street from the townhouse and he was met by one of his staff who pressed a radio into his hand. The snow was thickening and starting to stick to the grassy areas around the townhouse.

“Team deployed, Mr. Holmes. Three groups in all.  The street has been secured, the house is surrounded and there is a team on this roof.” The young man pointed up and Mycroft could just make out an individual on the roof. “The CCTV feed and went down with the alarms so we are working blind.”

Mycroft nodded and keyed the radio. “This is control. Report.”

One by one, the three teams responded. “Team one: Perimeter secured.” There was a short pause. “Team 2: Street secured.” Another pause. “Team three: We have an obscured view through the leaded transom window. One armed man in the front hall. He is alone and pacing. At least two bodies down. One female, older, condition undetermined but there is a lot of blood on the floor. The second male but I can’t be sure as all I can see is the shoes.”

Mycroft’s heart seized as he listened. It had to be Emma. There must have been at least two and possibly thee of them. They more than likely grabbed Molly on the street and forced her to open the door. They had somehow ambushed Emma who may have taken one out before being taken down herself. He closed his eyes and forced down the wave of fear that threatened to cloud his judgment. He needed control and needed it now. He took a deep breath, counted to ten and then took another. Better, the overwhelming emotions retreated and he felt his logic re-assert itself.

He keyed his radio. “Team three, can you see into the room to the left?”

“Negative. Shades are drawn.”

Damn and blast, he thought to himself. Emma had told him they had hidden the crate in the hidey hole. Molly had probably capitulated to demands and was even now opening the secret room. If only he could be sure how many of them were in the house. First things first, he thought coldly. “Team three, can you obtain target in foyer?”

“Yes, sir, with 95% probability.”

“Excellent. Obtain target and terminate. Silence critical.”

“Yes, sir. I understand sir. I will report when target down. Team three out.”

Mycroft held his breath as he stared at the stained glass transom above the red door. A small red dot danced across the glass. Any minute now, he thought. There was pause, the red dot ceased its motion and there was a quiet tinkle of shattered glass.

Impatient, Mycroft keyed his radio. “Team three, report.”

“Target down, terminal. Team three out.”

Time to get this party started Mycroft thought grimly as he again keyed his radio. “Team one, divide and conquer. Back door recommended. Stealth critical. Secure both females alive by whatever means necessary.”

“Yes, sir. Mobilization in five minutes. Team one out.”

One bastard down, more to go, Mycroft thought grimly as he lowered the radio and looked impotently at the townhouse. Now came the hard part, getting in and securing the situation without losing Molly or Emma. His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed to thin slits. Emma might be dead already but he would think about that later. She had been with him a long time and knew the risks. However, Molly was an innocent and he owed her protection. Without her, Sherlock would have been lost and for that he owed her everything. No, he couldn’t lose Molly, not after all they had been through these past months. He shook his head and fiercely tamped down the unwanted emotions. Time to deal with how he felt about Molly Hooper later. Right now he had vermin to exterminate.

******

Evan paced in the foyer. That asshole Jim had better off the girl soon and grab the stash. He was a talker and talkers loved the sound of their own voices. Eye on the prize, asshole, eye on the prize. If it had been up to him, they would have killed everyone but the girl right away, grabbed the stash, taken her and left post haste. She looked like a tasty little piece and they could have shot her up and then taken turns fucking her good before she stopped breathing.

He looked down at the older woman on the floor. Her breathing was shallow but steady. Fuck Jim, he thought, I am offing this bitch.  He stepped into the center of the foyer, pulled his gun and took aim at Emma’s forehead.  One less thing to do on the way out the door.

Emma’s eyes blinked open and she found herself looking down the barrel of a gun. Her eyes met Evan’s and he grinned at her. “Hello missus, time to die.” His finger tightened on the trigger and he was so focused he failed to see the red dot of the laser sight dance on the transom window.

Emma smiled up at the man. “Perhaps not” she said in her soft voice.  He looked at her and cocked his head, puzzled and then his throat was blown out by a single bullet. He fell, his gun clattering to the floor just missing Emma who scooted out of the way just in time.

Emma sat up rubbing her forehead. Her head throbbed and her hip sang with pain from the impact with the marble floor but she was functional.  Must get to Molly she thought and with a determined look on her face she reached for the gun, unscrewed the silencer and carelessly tossed it aside. This thing was a small cannon and would make a great big noise. Mr. Mycroft, who she was sure nearby, would be sure to get the message.

******

The bookcase swung in revealing the secret room and the crate. Jim herded Molly inside and pushed the bookcase back into place with a click. Molly smiled to herself in spite of her pain. She needn’t have worried, old Jim had just done himself well and good. She had accidentally locked herself in not long after moving to the townhouse. There was a hidden latch but it had taken an hour of searching and then a phone call to John at the shop to find it.

“What the hell you grinning about, Miss Molly?” Pushing her down into the chair, he swung the backpack onto the table and zipped it open. He took out several long zip ties and before she could react he had secured her good arm and her legs to the stout oak chair. Grabbing a pile of bubble wrap from under the table he made a pillow shaped bundle, stuffed it behind her arm and pulled it out straight, palm up.

The pain was excruciating and she greyed out for a moment as he zipped tied her wrist to the arm of the chair. What the hell was he doing?  He then removed a roll of duct tape, ripped off a length and grabbing her head roughly, he taped her mouth shut.

He reached into the backpack again and removed a flat case. He opened it and laid out a syringe filled with a clear liquid and a length of surgical tubing. Molly’s eyes grew wide and she grunted in panic behind the tape, struggling helplessly against her bonds, the zip ties cutting into her flesh.

“Oh figured it out, have we? I thought it would be fitting to take you out with some of the goods.” He lifted the syringe and held it up in the dim light. “Only the best for you, Miss Molly, I spared no expense. Very pure and not a hint of fentanyl. That comes later and at very high profit margin. You should have a nice little high before you nod out and stop breathing. No worries, it won’t take long as it seems you’ve led a very pure life and this shit is very strong. You should be grateful, this could’ve been a syringe full of air.  Nasty way to die that.”

Molly shook her head repeatedly in the negative and violently arched her back, moving the chair several inches. Her eyes met his pleadingly.

He laughed. “No way out, Miss Molly. There was no way out for your idiot of a husband either. Rufus slipped up, the great stupid git, the little hubby found out and one of my lorry drivers had to take him out.  Just a few drinks and a sob story got the chap a nice, cushy prison stay.  He will be out in under two years and will have a small fortune waiting for him. Too bad we had to hurt the hubby so bad but I could tell he would never play.  Too good and too honorable by half and now very, very dead.” He smiled at her and her heart went cold. “All it’s going to take for you is one small poke. You should be grateful I am not leaving you for Ev. He is a bit a pervert is Ev and you would not have gone out unmolested, if you know what I mean.”

Molly’s eyes went wide, and tears began to run down her face as he expertly tied the surgical tubing around her upper arm and probed for a vein. She started to hyperventilate as Jim raised the syringe, tapped it with his fingernail, a squirted a bit of the drug out the tip and smiled down at her. “Happy trails, Miss Molly. Enjoy the ride.” He looked in her eyes one more time, slid the needle into her vein and pushed the plunger home.

He turned away from her, took a small pry bar out of the now empty backpack and expertly levered off the slats on the bottom side of the crate. Reaching inside he extracted eight tightly packed bundles of white power wrapped in clear plastic. He quickly loaded them into the backpack, put it back on and turned back to the bookcase.

He looked at the smooth surface and saw no lever. He pushed at the door and it stood solid. He ran his fingers around the edge of the door and now in a panic he whirled back to face her. “How does this door open? HOW DOES THIS DOOR OPEN?”

Molly eyes smiled at him with her eyes as if to say “gotcha!” He darted towards her, ripped the tape off her mouth, twisted her hair into his hand and slapped her, hard. “Tell me bitch, tell me now!”

Molly smiled again, her head strangely muzzy and the pain in her arm just a faint echo. Her eyelids drooped. She was so tired.  Who was this little man with the irritating voice? Her limbs felt heavy and she felt a gathering energy at the base of her spine. All at once the energy let loose and a rush like she had never felt flooded her brain. Her eyesight sharpened and then blurred, her head slumped sideways and she moaned in pleasure. Nothing could hurt her now, not even the fact her John had been murdered, Emma was probably dead and Mycroft was somewhere suffering because he couldn’t save any of them. Her last cohesive thought was that she hoped he would be able to forgive himself given time.  She was fading fast.

Jim screamed at her. “YOU FUCKING LITTLE BITCH! I AM GOING TO KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS!” He shook her like a terrier would shake a rat until her teeth rattled in her head and still she smiled up at him. He struck her again and she felt her cheekbone crack, damn he was angry. He stepped up to her, latched his hands around her neck and started to squeeze. She saw stars and she struggled weakly against him. The chair scraped and rattled across the floor he was at her so hard. This was it, she was going to die.

She saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. The door to the hidey hole swung open and standing in the open door was Emma Carlton. Her face was covered in blood, one eye was swollen shut, her clothes were a mess and she had a large gun in her hand. Wow, Emma looks pissed thought Molly, just as the gun roared and Jim’s hands suddenly vanished from her neck.

Emma rushed forward, seeing the syringe and the blood on Molly’s arm. Molly looked up at her and had just enough consciousness left to say three words, “Heroine…naloxone upstairs” before fading completely way.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Mycroft waited on the street pacing. Team one should have entered by now.  What the hell was going on?  He lifted his radio to key it when it squawked to life.

“Team one inside. Two men down in foyer, repeat, two men down. No sign of older female. Entry to drawing room eminent, stand by.”

The radio fell silent and Mycroft held his breath. There was the sound of a large caliber gun discharging and he was instantly across the street, his logic forgotten. He dashed up the steps and frantically unlocked the door, his hands shaking, and flung it open.

The foyer was wrecked. There were two dead men on the floor and the walls were spattered with blood. There was broken pottery scattered across the floor and Molly’s bright orange purse lying on its side amongst the debris. He heard the sound of rapidly moving footsteps and whirled around. Emma Carlton, looking like a mad woman, burst from the drawing room, her eyes wild.

“Molly, its Molly. He injected her with heroine. Naloxone upstairs, must get to it. You know what to do, keep her awake if you can.” She turned and ran and Mycroft darted into the drawing room.

His team had just exited the hidey hole and two of them were carrying the limp form of Molly Hooper while the other looked on, gun drawn. He nodded at armed man who nodded back and holstered his gun. Mycroft took one look and was horrified by what he saw. Molly’s face was grey and her respiration shallow. She had deep abrasions on her wrists and ankles and the left side of her face was livid and swelling, the skin over her cheekbone broken and bleeding. She had a red stripe across mouth and lower face from what could have only been duct tape. One arm hung strangely and as the men gently laid her on the sofa, he could see the end of a broken bone pushing out just beneath the surface of her skin.

Feeling sick and forcing himself to move slowly, he approached the sofa, his team silently parting to give him room. Not caring how he might look, he peeled off his woolen coat dropping it on the floor as he knelt on the thick carpet and took Molly’s wrist in his hand.  Her pulse fluttered weakly and her skin was cold. He gently turned her damaged face towards him and pulled open one lid. The pupil was tiny and constricted and his touch elicited no response. His heart froze, he had seen this before many times. She was in overdose and he couldn’t let her slip away before Emma returned with the lifesaving drug.

He gently shook her trying hard not to jostle her broken arm. “Molly, you need to wake up. Molly, its Mycroft. You’ve been injected with heroin and Emma has gone to get medicine. You need to wake up right now and fight it. Come on Molly, wake up.”

Molly lay unresponsive and her breath slowed even further and then stopped altogether. Without a thought Mycroft, Mycroft opened her mouth and started emergency breathing for her. His whole world narrowed to breathing in and breathing out, his mouth on hers willing her to live. He caught the subtle scent of her freesia shampoo and squeezed his eyes closed in desperation. His thoughts flashed to Sherlock and how many times he had found him half dead and had been forced to inject him with naloxone and breathe for him until he could breathe on his own. Then came the withdrawal as the drug went into effect forcing Mycroft to restrain his little brother and get him to one of his bolt holes where he could be safely contained. Then came the anger and resentment and accusations and the whole cycle started all over again.

He heard rapid footsteps and heard Emma’s voice. “I have it, Mr. Mycroft. It is a nasal formulation and though it’s old, I don’t think it’s expired.”

Mycroft lifted his head and looked at Emma. “Give it to me, I know what to do. Call 999, we will need an ambulance.” He took the vial, unwrapped it with shaking hands and quickly sprayed half a dose in Molly’s left nostril. Gently turning her head, he dosed the right nostril.  He dropped the vial to the carpet and resumed the emergency breathing. They had done all they could do and it was up to her now.

******

Mycroft stood alone in the wreckage of Molly’s foyer. He was exhausted and could not remember the last time he slept.  Sometime in Italy he was certain but how long ago eluded him. His limbs felt leaden and though he had prevailed, he felt empty and hollowed out just as he did after scraping Sherlock up off the street and forcing him to live another day. They had all been very lucky today and Molly Hooper would live. Even now she was in an ambulance, Emma Carlton holding her hand, on the way to hospital.

After what seemed like hours but what actually been less than ten minutes, Molly hard started to stir and coughing and sputtering had started to breathe again on her own. She was still not fully conscious   and might not be for some time. Some color returned to her face and though her nails and lips were still slightly blue, he knew that she had rounded the corner and would recover. He heard the wail of an ambulance in the distance and gently stroked the uninjured side of Molly’s face. My poor girl, he thought, my poor, poor girl.

Drained, he sat back on his haunches, Molly’s small hand in his. He looked up into the faces of his team and saw surprise and compassion. He was still looking back at them, his mind empty, when the front door crashed open and the ambulance crew came in. Mycroft rose to meet them, reluctantly leaving Molly’s side. Two instantly attended Molly and a third attempted to get Emma Carlton to lie down but was rebuffed soundly. Mycroft smiled thinly in spite of himself. It would take a lot more than a blow to the side of the head to take out Emma.

They were gone now and the townhouse was quiet. A forensics team had arrived and started bagging evidence and taking photos. The bodies had been thoroughly examined in place, photographed and then removed from the scene. All three had died almost instantly from gunshot wounds to the head though Rufus Gibson also had a chest wound. Good riddance, thought Mycroft bitterly as he stepped delicately around the drying pools of blood as he assessed the scene himself.

He had dispatched a team to the bookshop and they were even now starting a search that would take several days. Once the teams were done here and he was cleared to do so, he would dispatch cleaners to the townhouse to remove the blood and restore the broken doors and windows. By the time they were done, there would be no trace left of what happened. Toby had been located hiding under Molly’s bed upstairs and had been relocated to the residence. He shook his head in frustration. He could restore Molly’s home and look after her cat but giving her piece of mind was beyond even his considerable skills. He hoped that once again, in spite of all that had happened, she would choose to move on. He would help her if she would let him.

Mycroft picked up his crumpled coat from the floor and shrugged himself into it. Charles was waiting at the curb to take him to the hospital. He took one last look around, nodded to two members of team one still standing guard and stepped outside onto the stoop. Snow was falling and the street and was hushed and still. The air was cold and clean and he took a deep breath to clear the ferrous scent of blood from his nose. The street lights cast pools of gold on the pavement and the snow glittered softly at their edges. Such a beautiful night. It was always so, violence and corruption had its way and the world rolled on.  He stood for a moment, just breathing and looking at the beauty of the night, and then was down the steps and into the car.

******

It was very late and Mycroft Holmes sat at the bedside of Molly Hooper, his hand over hers where it lay on the pale green coverlet. The hospital was quiet except for the soft footsteps of nurses doing their rounds in the corridor. He would have to leave soon but he had staff stationed on this floor and had put in a call to John Watson who would sit with Molly until he could return.

Molly was pale and her arm had been set in a heavy cast. It had been a compound fracture but the critical care staff had taken films and the break was clean, if ugly. No spiral fracturing and so the fix was fairly straightforward. Her arm would be in a cast for a good long while but she would have full function once it came off. She had several stitches in her cheek and though that bastard had cracked the bone, there was no real fracture and so the doctors left it alone. It would heal on its own and any scarring should be minimal. 

She had been restive and semi-conscious when they arrived and after another dose of naloxone, this one intravenous, had remained stable with no further signs of respiratory distress. Once transferred from critical care to a room, she was given a drip of a mild, non-opioid painkiller and saline to help restore her fluid levels. She had fallen into a normal sleep almost immediately. Mycroft had been at her side the entire time, much to the irritation of the medical staff. They had tried to eject him from critical care but one look from baleful blue grey eyes and a flash of his government ID and they gave it up. They knew a lost cause when they saw one.

Emma Carlton had been treated for a minor concussion, had almost 18 stitches running from the side of her forehead into her hairline and was given some heavy duty NSAIDS for a deep nasty bruise to her hip. Mycroft had sent her back to the residence with his driver Charles so she could get some rest. She went reluctantly and he was sure that no later than noon tomorrow she would be back at Molly’s side. Not much could keep Emma down but the adrenaline of the moment had started wearing off last night after a few hours in critical care and he knew she was in pain. She had only relented to go back to the residence after getting assurances from him that he would remain with Molly until John Watson arrived later that morning.

Once he had seen Emma safely off, Mycroft had taken up his post at Molly’s bedside and had not moved since. The floor nurses, touched by his attentiveness, had brought him tea and biscuits and a blanket. He had spent the first few hours on his mobile, monitoring staff chatter from the field and returning emails. Then, his exhaustion finally catching up with him, he simply stared into space, holding Molly’s hand in his and wondering at the stupidity of human nature.  

The data recovered from the bookshop was depressingly typical. A weak man with a gambling problem and a large debt had fallen in with a bad crowd and been rapidly pulled in over his head. Rufus Gibson had been an unsurprisingly ineffectual criminal and his laptop had yielded a surprising amount of incriminating information about the drug shipments. Using the habitual art acquisition behavior of his innocent partner, Rufus had set up the drug shipments right under John Smith’s nose. Things must have gone sideways and somehow John had found out and had been targeted for death. Rufus had only found out afterwards that his criminal partner, Jim, had dispatched the lorry driver that ran down John Smith. Things started to spiral out of control after that and it was only due to a mix up with this last delivery that Rufus and unfortunate companions ended up at the townhouse. Rufus had broken in to the townhouse to destroy any records still held by John and thought Molly’s long absence would cover his tracks. He had also attempted to re-route the final delivery to the shop but it had been too late.

Too late for a lot of things, thought Mycroft bitterly. Greed and stupidity had deprived a fine young man of his life and set in motion a series of events that ended in nothing but death. He had seen worse but not by much. Goodness knows how Molly would deal with this last nightmare in a series of events that would have long ago broken a lesser person.

It was over in that all of the players in the drug scheme were dead but Molly would have to be told that her husband’s death had been no accident, his trusted business partner had betrayed him and then betrayed and almost killed her. She would have to live the horror of the last year all over again but this time knowing that it had not been an accident but the result of greed and fear and selfishness. Mycroft had no illusions about human nature and expected the worst from humanity. Molly however, had always believed the best of people, no matter how badly they sometimes treated her. He hoped for her sake that though shaken, her core beliefs would survive and resurface to help sustain her in the coming months.

He had once found her optimism and openness cloying. Her stubborn devotion to his undeserving younger brother had been particularly galling to him but in the end, it was Molly Hooper, not Mycroft with his superior intelligence and power, who had saved Sherlock and all of his friends. He had resented her and marginalized her and though he had been grateful, he had ignored her when she had needed help the most. He would never do so again.

He looked at her battered face, softly lit by indirect light and peaceful in sleep. If only he could buffer her from the hurt and anger that would come to her when she woke. Mycroft rose from his chair, pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. John Watson should be arriving within the quarter hour. He had not been pleased to receive a call from Mycroft but quickly agreed to sit with Molly for part of the morning.

He took one last, long look at Molly and picked up his coat and scarf. He did not want to leave her but leave he must. He knew she would not be alone when she woke up and perhaps it was best that it was not his face she saw. His last thought as he turned away and swept out the door was they had been through hell together but it was over. It was time for them both to move on.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Molly woke slowly. She could tell immediately by the smell that she was in hospital. Her head was fuzzy and she felt a bit ill. She slowly opened her eyes, turned her head and the first thing she saw was John Watson, sitting by her bedside and looking concerned.  He looked tired too but just seeing his friendly face and all the good memories it evoked instantly made her feel better.

John cracked and smile and leaned in towards her. “Hello, Molly. Looks like you had quite a time of it. How are you feeling?”

She squinted at him and shifted in the bed. “I’m not quite sure. My head and arm hurts and I feel a bit ill. I remember my arm being broken and I remember that bastard injecting me with what he said was heroin and then I can’t recall anything at all. Is Emma Carlton alright?  She took quite a blow to the head after…oh god, Rufus Gibson is dead isn’t he?”  Molly tried to sit up and was instantly dizzy. John leapt up and quickly adjusted her bed to support her.

“Whoa, Molls, no getting jumpy. You are in no shape for sudden moves. Here, let me adjust those pillows for you.” John arranged her pillows so she could sit up and look at him comfortably.

“Mycroft briefed…” John started to say when he was quickly interrupted by Molly.

“Mycroft?  Mycroft was here?  Where is he now?”

“Yes, Mycroft was here. He rang me sometime after midnight and told me that you had been hurt and asked would I come to the hospital to sit with you this morning.  He stayed with you all last night and just left about an hour ago. We spoke briefly about what happened and he asked me to assure you that Emma would be alright, that she had been treated and released and had returned home to rest. He thought she might be by later on today. Rufus is dead as are the other two men involved.” John paused and shook his head, looking disgusted. “Jesus Molly, what a business. How awful for everyone involved.”

“It was beyond awful John. Just like a nightmare on top of everything else that has happened this year.” Molly looked sad but resigned. “So, how am I John?  What did the doctor say?”

John looked slightly embarrassed. “He stopped by not long ago and will be back later this morning. He gave me a run down on your condition after I told him I was a doctor.”

“That’s alright, John, I’m glad you asked so I don’t have to wait.”

“He said you were lucky to be alive and that if it wasn’t for Mycroft and Emma you would have probably died. They administered nasal naloxone just in time and Mycroft helped you breath until the ambulance arrived.  Your injuries were stabilized in the ambulance and then critical care gave you another injection to keep you breathing.”

John looked at her sadly, questioning her with his eyes. “You had that naloxone because of Sherlock, didn’t you? He went to you when he was high as a kite, didn’t he? I am still amazed to this day that he managed to live as long as he did considering how badly he abused himself. I still have a hard time accepting he is gone, the great git.” John shook his head and looked away. “What am I saying? You’ve suffered your losses this year too, Molly, and I am so sorry.”

Molly’s face fell and her voice was quiet. “Oh John, they killed him. They killed my John for drug money.”

John shook his head, leaned in and carefully pulled Molly into an embrace. She leaned into his accepting warmth and felt a great knot of anguish let loose inside her. He held her as she wept and then wept himself for all they had both lost.

******

She had been in hospital for almost 10 days as an infection developed in her broken arm and she had developed a fever that needed to be treated with an aggressive course of antibiotics. The doctor’s greatest fear had been sepsis but she was strong and responded well to treatment.

Her mood varied between bitter anger and dark depression. She knew there was nothing she could have done to prevent John’s death but if he had confided in her, she could have gotten Lestrade or Mycroft involved and he might still be alive. The hospital psych had been by to see her and gave her a list of grief support groups. She had accepted the list reluctantly but as the days passed she began to admit to herself she might need help.

She was finally on the verge of being able to go home but she had made some decisions while stuck in her hospital bed. She would not return to the townhouse except to pack and make sure that it was ready to go on the market. Her attorney had stopped by to let her know that due to the untimely death of Rufus Gibson, the shop and its contents had reverted to her. Her attorney also let her know that he had been approached by an established private bookseller who was interested in buying both the building and the inventory. After a quick appraisal, she had agreed to sell and closing would occur within a month.  Between the sale of the shop and the townhouse, she would be able to purchase a new flat soon.

Emma Carlton had indeed come to see her that first day and John Watson had returned several times to check in on her. Mrs. Hudson came by and so did Greg Lestrade, whining about her absence at the morgue. Her colleagues at work also popped in, singly and in groups, and she had quite the collection of get well cards and silly gifts.

Of Mycroft there had been so sign but he made his concern known in small and not so anonymous ways. Almost every day she remained in the hospital some small tribute would appear on her bedside table. The items had been eclectic, surprising and very thoughtful. She knew they were from him though there was never a card. They were too subtle and carefully chosen to be from anyone else.

The first had been the Japanese bowl from her foyer that had been shattered in the violence of that horrid day. It had been lovingly pieced back together with gold, and if anything, was even lovelier than it had been before. It was delivered wrapped in delicate silvery tissue and nestled inside the bowl had been a fine velum card upon which was written in fountain pen the single word “kintsugi”. Curious, she had looked it up on her phone. It had been repaired according to a unique Japanese philosophy; rather than disguising the breakage, kintsugi restored the broken item with warm gold, incorporating the damage into the aesthetic of the once broken item and making that damage part of its history. It had made her weep while at the same time reassuring her that what had been broken could indeed be remade, perhaps even better than it had been before.

The second had been a single, perfectly concentric water lily enclosed in a flawless sphere of clear glass sitting on a rosewood base. The delicate pink flower had been caught at the peak of its beauty and floated as if caught inside a raindrop. It was beautiful and calming and she found herself looking at it often throughout the long days of fever.

The third had been a book on prion diseases and several of the newest pathology journals from around the world, some translated from foreign languages. These had arrived in practical brown paper and had included a call for papers from a prestigious publication that seemed custom made for her. She had laughed in surprise when she unwrapped the gift but had later immersed herself in the dense journals and afterwards felt as if someone had given her a shot of pure oxygen. She felt like working again and might just submit a prospectus for that research paper she had been thinking about for the past five years.

The nurses had been very kind to her as well and told her how Mycroft had sat with her that first night, held her hand and refused to leave, in spite of his obvious exhaustion. “We brought him tea and biscuits, miss, and then a blanket. He was quite bristly but we could tell he was appreciative in spite of himself. He even fell asleep for a short while but he never let go of your hand. Is he sweet on you, miss?” Molly shrugged and felt both embarrassed and pleased. “It sure seems like he’s sweet on you but men are a mystery, don’t you know?”

Emma had come to pick her up that last day at the hospital. She and Charles came up to Molly’s room, packed her personal items into large shopping bags and walked alongside as a nurse wheeled her downstairs to the hospital entrance. She had arranged lodging at a hotel not far from the hospital and would handle her business affairs from there until she could find a new flat. Emma had gone to the townhouse and packed her personal things and had them delivered to the hotel. She would be glad of the impersonal space and relative solitude as she had a lot of thinking to do and many decisions to make. She would return to work as soon as her cast came off and all of her injuries had healed.

The winter light was lovely and it was cold and calm outside. Another thin blanket of snow had fallen and the air was crisp and clean. The sky blushed pink in the east and as the sun rose higher, the snow sparkled a pale gold and the bare trees cast long shadows on the carpet of white. Time to get on with things. Her world had been shattered but she knew now she was strong enough to go on. Charles handed her into the car and with Emma by her side, she left the hospital and her old life behind.

******

She and Emma had spent many afternoons and weekends looking for her new home. She finally settled on a three bedroom, two bath flat in an Art Deco building within walking distance of Bart’s. It had been dear but she had a tidy sum put away after the sale of the townhouse and shop. She loved the clean lines and period details, so different from the Victorian charm of the townhouse but lovely in its own right.

The flat was on the second floor and unlike her old flat, had a small elevator that made it easily accessible. It had a small foyer, a large sitting room and three bedrooms, one of which she converted to an office. The loos were amusing, the main one tiled green and black and the master en-suite tiled pink and black. The kitchen had been fully remodeled and it was a symphony in black and white with a shiny extravagant AGA cooker. There was a small table for casual dining in the kitchen, perfect for her morning coffee and a larger table out in the main room just in case she felt like company.

The flat was full of light thanks to a wide wall of windows and she had furnished it with favorite pieces from the townhouse mixed with newer pieces that she and Emma had picked for their more modern sensibility. It all worked somehow and she loved it.

A few weeks after she moved in, a crate was delivered. It was high tech black plastic and was the size of a small chest. The delivery man had been professional, quick and was gone as soon as she signed for the box. The return address was that of a storage warehouse in south London. Curiously, she cut the reinforced strapping and popped the lid. Inside there were a series of paintings; most of them landscapes and seascapes. It was the art from that last, awful delivery to the townhouse. Mycroft must have held them for her, giving her adequate time to settle into her new home and get some distance from that awful night. She drew five paintings from the crate, all similar, until she reached the painting at the very bottom.

It was wrapped in thick paper and was fairly small. She carefully unwrapped it and her breath caught in her throat. It was a painting of her, done by John’s favorite artist in oils. It was titled simply “Molly” with the name of the artist and the date on a small label on the back of the painting. Her own faced stared back at her from the canvas. Her eyes were soft, her hair was down and her small smile was enigmatic but said it all; she loved and was loved in return. John had snapped her in their bedroom one morning with his mobile and he had loved the photo. He must have sent it to his artist friend soon afterwards.

Her eyes watered with emotion as she set the painting on the fireplace mantel. It was beautiful and in it, the Molly Hooper who she had always hoped to be looked back at her. She picked up the paper wrapping and an envelope fluttered to the floor. Time slowed to a crawl as she bent and picked it up. Her name was written across the front in John’s looping script. She drew a single page from the envelope and read it, standing in the middle of her new flat, everything forgotten but the letter in her hand.

_Dearest wife,_

_Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky. I sent this card along to Alec for him to include with your painting. I am looking forward to seeing your face when we unpack the crate together and I hand the painting to you to unwrap. You will be expecting a sheep or a highland cow and instead your beautiful face will be looking up at you. I am so excited to see it as Alec told me it is quite special._

_I am sure it will be lovely but no painting will ever capture how beautiful you are to me._

_Happy anniversary, darling. I love you._

_John_

She closed her eyes for a moment and the letter slipped from her hand and fell to the floor. She stood very still and reached out with all her senses for any last trace of him. The flat was silent and except for her memories - there was nothing - not even a whisper of him remained. No matter she thought, her John Smith, her beautiful, amazing and unique John Smith would always be with her for as long as she lived.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

The wood was russet with fall and the oak leaves rustled gently in the light, warm breeze that caressed her face. She was high in an immense tree, so immense that she stepped out of the leaves onto a branch as wide as a walking path. The bark was rough beneath her bare feet as she walked forward, looking down from the lofty heights and yet unafraid. The air was balmy and she was overwhelmed by a feeling of well-being and peace. She looked down and far below her, giant brown fish swam across a lake bottom layered with fallen oak leaves. They swam slowly in a silent ballet through water so clear it looked like air.

She looked up and John was there, on another branch facing hers with a small gap of open air between them. He was smiling and wore his well-worn jeans, his vibrant red sweater and his dark hair flopped carelessly across his forehead.  It was so good to see him. He was waiting for her and smiled as she stepped to the very edge of the branch. She was high above the water but she felt no fear, only a fascination that John should be so close to her after all this time.

He stepped forward to the very edge of his branch, his eyes on hers. He held out his hand to her across the void and very clearly said, “Don’t be afraid. Take my hand. Just one small step…”

His voice was a balm to her and her love for him swelled in her breast. She held out her hand and their fingers almost brushed. His eyes willed her to lean forward and she did, her feet uncertain on the edge.

“Don’t be afraid. Everything will be all right. All you have to do is take my hand.”

She leaned out even further, hoping to brush his warm flesh when a voice spoke behind her. “Molly, take my hand. It’s not your time. You have to come back.”

She turned and Mycroft stood with his hand extended, his navy chalk striped suit incongruous against a field of russet oak leaves, high in tree in a forest of giants. Her eyes cut between the two men and though she wanted nothing more than to step across the gap and go to John, she knew that he was in another place and she wasn’t ready.

She looked at John across the gap and ever so slowly backed away until she felt the warm wool of Mycroft’s suit jacket pressed into her back. His arm crept around her and she felt his life coursing through her like a flame.

John let his hand fall back to his side and with a gentle smile and goodbye in his eyes, he faded back into the leaves and disappeared. She silently wept to see him go and the heat of her tears was bitter on her cheek.

Mycroft’s voice was a caress and she felt his soft kiss on her neck. She stilled under his touch, turned and woke up.

******

Molly sat alone at her kitchen table, the late spring sunlight coursing through the sheer blinds. She had been up thinking since she had awakened from her dream, face wet with tears. It had been so real and even now, wide awake, she could hear the rustle of the oak leaves and see the giant fish moving slowly in the waters of her imagination. She could feel the pull of John’s love for her and his quiet acceptance that she had, finally and irrevocably, chosen life. Mycroft had pulled her back and though she had fought him the first time, this time she had gone with him willingly.

What did it mean? It had been months since the paintings had been delivered and though she had seen Emma quite often, she had not seen Mycroft at all. But, in spite of his physical absence, she did see him every day when she put her keys into the Japanese bowl in her foyer and caught site of the delicate water lily paperweight holding down her journal drafts. She saw him in passing black cars, she saw him while walking along the Thames and she saw him while puzzling out a particularly hard passage when she was writing. He had taken up a home in her consciousness and she was not able or willing to let him go.

She asked after him, of course, and had sent her greetings to him through Emma, but she left it there. He had not tried to contact her either and the days spun out. She spent her days busy at work, her nights with her friends, her books and Toby. She was seeing a therapist and she had joined a grief recovery group.  She had good and bad days but the good had started to outnumber the bad. She had also started a prospectus for that long delayed journal article and if she wasn’t exactly happy, she was in a place of comfort with herself.

She did miss him and was conflicted about seeing him again. She knew her dream was just a dream and he probably had no real romantic interest in her. But he did care about her, she was sure of that. He had saved her by pulling her off that wall so any months ago and then he had saved her again, giving her the breath of life and then stepping back to let her find herself again. Yes, he cared and she missed him.

She took a deep breath and made her decision. She rose from the table, rinsed her tea cup and left it in the sink and left the kitchen to get dressed. She had a call to make and it was best done in person.

******

Mycroft stood alone on the sidewalk in front of his office waiting for Charles to pick him up. He had an appointment at the Italian embassy to pick up one very unhappy and quite unrepentant Yorkshireman from his new best friends, who had been very well paid to bring him home to London. He did not have to deal with the little sod personally but he liked the symmetry of his decision and he would be closing a circle that had been broken so many months ago. It was not logical but it was satisfying. He must be getting old to indulge himself so.

After that night at Molly’s townhouse, he had overseen the completion of the investigation, checked on the restoration of the townhouse and kept track of Molly through Emma and his network. She was doing well and though she had been slow to throw herself back into society, she had been going out more often with her friends and he was pleased.

He had not reached out to her since the small gifts he had sent to her in the hospital. He hoped that they had given her some comfort as that had been his intent. He had waited to send her the paintings recovered from the crate without examining them himself. His staff had checked to make sure that the remaining contents were indeed paintings, had repacked them in neutral packaging as far in form and composition from the original crate as possible and sent them by private courier to her new flat.

Emma had reported that Molly had appreciated receiving the paintings and always carried a greeting from her upon returning to the residence. She had also reported with some pleasure that his gifts were prominently displayed and that she was sure that it was time for him to get back in touch with Molly. He had given Emma a small smile at the suggestion but had done nothing. It was not yet time. Molly had been through hell and she needed some distance, both from the events that had thrown them together and him as a reminder of those events. He missed her but was at peace with missing her. He still wasn’t quite sure of his feelings but he did care for her and wished her well.

Charles was late but that was acceptable. It had started to sprinkle after a beautiful clear morning but spring was definitely in the air. He caught the faint scent of lilacs and smiled to himself as he popped his umbrella. His mobile vibrated in his pocket and he looked at the screen. It was a text from Molly Hooper and it said:

_Hello, Mycroft._

He turned and standing less than a quarter block away was Molly. She was dressed in a charcoal grey rain coat, carried her bright orange purse and held her canary yellow umbrella over her head. She was smiling and after a brief hesitation, started to walk towards him. He walked towards her and they both stopped a short arms’ length apart, his black umbrella just kissing her yellow one.

He looked down into her face and saw nothing but peace. She cocked her head to the side and smiled up at him. He said not a word but returning her smile, he held out his arm. She ducked her head shyly but took it and together they walked up the broad avenue in the vague direction of the Italian embassy. He knew of a lovely little tea shop close by that served an excellent black blend and had delectable cream cakes. The little Yorkshireman and the Italians could wait.

******

Charles pulled up to the curb and scanned the pavement for Mycroft. He had gotten caught in traffic and while he patiently waited for a small collision to be cleared by the local constabulary, it had started to rain. Mr. Holmes would not be pleased but there was nothing to be done about it.

He was just about to pull out his mobile and call when he caught site of Mycroft’s unmistakable tailoring and umbrella walking arm in arm with a young lady with a bright orange purse and a horrible yellow umbrella. It had to be that Miss Hooper and Charles smiled as the two heads bent together talking and strolling up the avenue, the waiting car and the Italian embassy obviously forgotten. He would have to give old Emma a ring and share the big news. Oh, wouldn’t she be pleased. Still smiling and quite pleased with this new development, he eased the long black car out into traffic and headed towards his favorite local pub. He would be ready should Mr. Holmes need him but he was certain it would be an hour or so. Time for a banger or two and a solitary toast to friendship and the great adventure that was life.

 

“To live in hearts left behind is not to die” 

Thomas Campbell


End file.
